


on long nights, a resting place

by restlessvirtue



Category: Women's Soccer RPF
Genre: F/F, Neighbours AU, Slow Burn, a whole lot of yearning, quarantine au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-01
Updated: 2020-11-09
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:27:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 68,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23946175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/restlessvirtue/pseuds/restlessvirtue
Summary: As the world changes and Tobin suddenly finds herself quarantined alone after getting home from a tournament, she finds comfort and company in her kind neighbor, Christen. Isolation proves a lot less lonely when there’s someone to go through it with.
Relationships: Tobin Heath/Christen Press
Comments: 628
Kudos: 1053





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Writing this story has been comforting to me during all this, but if it suits you better not to think about the current situation at all then I recommend not reading. I’m not intending it to be an angsty ride – just a sweet, soft diversion. 
> 
> I hope you’re all safe and well right now.

It’s strange how quickly things change.

She’d been playing through it, wrapping up another tournament win with the national team in the midst of it all. They’d been fine in Orlando; she’d hung with Syd and the kids, chilled at Ash and Ali’s home, messed around with Pinoe. In New Jersey, they’d been a little more cautious but things had mostly carried on as normal. Then came Texas, and elbow bumps in lieu of handshakes, and everyone keeping a healthy distance.

There had been a strange finality to it beforehand. She felt sure – though it went unspoken, though there were friendlies in the calendar – that it would be their last game for a long while. It was even more reason to secure the win, not just to seal the title, but to go away on a positive note. Added to that, there was the heat of the lawsuit, a fire freshly stoked by the day’s revelations. They had something to prove; they always had something to prove. So they played one last time. They played hard, even when Japan fought back. They celebrated just as hard too, hugging and jumping on each other with any idea about minimizing contact forgotten. Because it was habit, well-learned from a lifetime of celebrating together like hyperactive puppies. In the heat of the moment, their collective instincts were to leap toward each other, to embrace each other, to hold each other up. 

And then, when it was over, the world was a different place. Merely in the 90 minutes they’d been playing, the circumstances felt dramatically altered. 

_Travel ban. Tom Hanks tests positive. NBA shut down._

They leave camp in silence. Gone is the celebratory atmosphere that’s become as familiar to Tobin as the back of her hand. It had carried them through tournament after tournament these past few years: the young ones dancing and cheering at the back of the bus, Pinoe’s cackle from the seat in front, various members of the coaching staff trying to wrangle their players as they goof around, Kelley making the others scream from whatever hiding place she can find. 

And then there’s silence. And distance. 

Tobin flies back to Portland with Lindsey. They talk a little on the plane, trying to distract each other, but mostly the silence persists, the advice from their coaching staff fresh in their minds now: _stay at home, quarantine early, wait for further guidance in due course_. The sight of strangers in masks makes it hard to forget the situation, and they’re both exhausted from camp anyway. As they part at the airport, there’s a strange moment where they look at each other awkwardly, unsure whether to hug or elbow bump or do nothing at all. They settle on a hug in the end. Tobin instigates it, suddenly needing to hug someone more than she ever has, and notices the way the tension in Lindsey’s shoulders instantly drops as she accepts the embrace. 

It’s late when Tobin gets home, too late for her to even think about going out to the store for food. She opens her fridge with zero expectation that there’ll be anything waiting for her, and sure enough: it’s empty. She stalks around the apartment slowly, trying to think up the easiest option for food, and eventually manages to find a delivery option that’s still available. Dawn would be so disappointed, she thinks to herself, hitting the pay button on a solid $40 worth of food due to arrive in approximately two and a half hours.

Three hours later, her dinner arrives. She manages to miss the alert while she’s napping, and finds out thanks to a special delivery inside the building. It’s a knock at her apartment door that catches her attention. As she pads across the room to get it, rubbing her eyes and wondering who can possibly be knocking on her door from inside the building, she hears a distantly familiar voice call out, “Sorry, I was coming back from my walk and saw the delivery guy for you. It’s right out here. I just wanted to make sure you got it.”

By the time she’s opening the door, there is only her takeout sitting on the floor waiting for her. She calls out a confused, drowsy, “Thank you!” down the hall, though there are no signs of life anywhere.

Too tired to contemplate it too much, she picks up the takeout bags and goes back to the quiet evening of food and sleep that she had planned. She’s so exhausted that it’s the next morning before she gives the encounter another thought. It’s as she’s skulking around her kitchen, filled with self-pity over the sorry selection available in the cupboards, that she hears someone outside her door again. When she steps out into her hallway, she sees a note slip under the door.

Tobin reads the name at the bottom first, quickly, and doesn’t immediately recognize it. This time, however, she’s quick to react and manages to reach the peephole while her mystery guest is still out there. To her surprise, it’s the upstairs neighbor she’s seen coming and going occasionally. The pretty one, usually wearing yoga pants, always smiling warmly as they pass each other in the building.

She looks down at the note again and reads, _Hi Tobin, I noticed you were home from your trip and wanted to check you had everything you need. If there are any essentials you’re missing, I thought I’d reach out because I know you’re not here a lot so might not have been able to stock up. The stores have been out of a lot of things lately, so let me know if there’s anything you need. I’m right upstairs (flat 23), and I can also get stuff while I’m out picking up extras – going to the store early seems to be working out better so far. Anyways, I’ll leave you with my number._

Underneath her words, there’s a cellphone number written out by hand. 

Immediately, Tobin texts: _Hey, thanks for last night. I was totally wiped out, so would’ve probably missed my only shot at food without your help. You read me well because I haven’t stocked up on anything._ She adds a row of gritted teeth emojis for dramatic effect. _Was planning to head to the store today. It’s Tobin from downstairs btw._ She throws in the hang loose emoji without second-guessing it and shoots off the message. 

It’s only a few seconds before the little thought bubble with the ellipses pops up to show that Christen is typing. Tobin’s still staring down at her phone, waiting, when the reply comes through: _Don’t want to scare you but the stores are pretty empty. Let me know if there’s stuff you need still after. Stay safe out there. C x_

Tobin smiles to herself, comforted to have a nearby friend in all this, and slides the phone back into the pocket of her sweatpants. She’s not too concerned, figuring that her notable lack of pickiness when it comes to food might be about to pay off at least.

It’s only when she gets to the grocery store that she comes to understand quite what Christen means. Even being Tobin Heath in Portland – and she’s unmistakable in Supreme sweats, a snapback and Jordans – doesn’t get you very far when the stores are out. Fully out. It’s not just that her preferred brands aren’t available; it’s that whole food groups aren’t available. She shuffles around the aisles, passing strangers in masks, keeping her distance and trying not to get too freaked out by the experience. She’s staring down an entirely empty aisle, barren of the multi-packs of cereal she’d been expecting to see, when she gives in and calls Christen.

“Hey?” Christen answers, sounding a little surprised.

“Hey, so, umm, I, like, went to the store and it’s wild in here. I’m trying to get stuff I need but, like, there just isn’t… much at all. The shelves are just bare. I don’t wanna take advantage of your kind offer right off the bat but I might have to be that person,” she says, trying to unpack the oddness of the experience as she explains it to someone else. 

“Yeah, that’s totally fine. Just get what you can and we can sort the rest out. I’m pretty set,” Christen replies, in a soothing, relaxed voice that seems to steady Tobin’s heart rate just as she listens to it.

“This is… so nice of you to offer. Okay, I’m gonna try and get what I can and not, like, completely freak out. It’s so fucking weird,” Tobin confesses, feeling the need to address the vaguely apocalyptic feeling of wandering around a store while everyone looks at each other with a slightly haunted look in their eyes. 

“Yeah.” Christen’s voice is sad and soft, but still calming. “Were you kind of out of the real world for a while? When you were away?”

Though Christen doesn’t directly mention the national team, Tobin’s certain her neighbour knows exactly where she’d been. She distantly recalls a brief, friendly conversation after the World Cup – nothing more than _it was awesome_ , or something to that effect. Or perhaps even, _you were awesome_. Either way, Tobin answers Christen readily, explaining, “Yeah, it’s like a bubble. But it’s never been this weird to come home. This is just, like, fucking crazy.”

“I can only imagine.”

They’re quiet on the line but no part of Tobin wants to hang up. She wants Christen to keep talking to her, distracting her as she searches for something, anything, to add to her basket. 

Eventually, Christen says, “Well, don’t worry about whatever they don’t have. I’ve been going super early because there tends to be more there in the mornings, when they’ve just stocked up the shelves, I guess. I can just help you out when you’re home.”

“This is a really nice thing you’re doing for me,” Tobin reiterates, completely earnest in her gratitude. “Honestly.”

“Hey, don’t worry about it. Seriously. You can, umm, score for me sometime or something.” Christen laughs a little as she says it, not in a cynical way, almost nervous. 

Tobin thinks sadly that she won’t be scoring any time soon, but chooses not to say it. It feels too dismissive to respond that way when Christen’s being so cheery and helpful. Instead she just replies, a little wistful despite her best efforts, “Yeah, I’ll try.”

She hangs up the phone and carries on trying to navigate the store. 

It’s only when she gets home that she takes inventory of what she has and what she’s missing. She tries to minimize her requests as much as possible, feeling guilty at her total lack of preparation. There’d been no toothpaste, no soap, no tinned food – barely any food at all, in fact.

They text back and forth, and Christen’s quick to reassure her once again that it’s not a problem. Nothing seems too much trouble. It has Tobin wondering what she did to deserve this guardian angel. In the form of her cute neighbour, no less. 

*

It’s only a couple of days before she discovers her first major shortage. While Christen had helped with a few small items – toothpaste, tinned tomatoes, eggs – Tobin had neglected to realize just how low she’d been running on one particular essential. 

_Toilet paper emergency_ , Tobin taps out into the phone, with a series of red siren emojis right after it. She’s wincing at the screen as she presses send from the corner of her bathroom, the storage cupboard door still open from her efforts to find some on her own.

A few minutes later, her phone lights up with a reply: _Outside your door. Better get it quick before someone steals it._

She hears Christen on the other side of the door still and calls out, “Wait, are you serious?” Tobin goes to open it and notices Christen walk a few steps back in anticipation. She’s got her hair tied up into a tidy ponytail with loose curls unravelling out of it, her face almost bare of makeup but no less pretty for it. She’s just as cute as Tobin had remembered, and once again wearing yoga pants. This time, they’re a soft maroon colour and they’re perfectly paired with the matching top: light pink, with maroon detailing.

“Oh yeah,” Christen says, nodding, a wry grin on her face as their eyes finally meet. It’s strange. They haven’t seen each other face-to-face in weeks – barely know each other at all, in fact – but there’s familiarity there. “Someone stole the eggs right out of my cart last time I went to the store. It’s wild out there.” 

“I’m scared now,” Tobin jokes.

There’s something fond and warm in Christen’s expression as she replies, “Didn’t mean to scare you.” And it makes Tobin forget herself for a moment. She’s a little lost, mesmerized as she looks into friendly green eyes that seem to be studying her right back.

When she realizes she’s let the silence go on a moment too long, she clears her throat. “I gotta thank you again for this, and the rest.” 

“Well, I pride myself on my preparedness,” Christen says with a smile that’s brightening by the second. “I stocked up a little before all this went down. I actually… I, uh… I do this anyway. I don’t want you to think I’m an asshole. I just tend to keep like 30 rolls in the cupboard. I don’t know why but–” She catches herself. “I guess it worked out.”

Tobin nods. “You saved my ass.” She glances down at the pack of toilet paper between them and adds, “Quite literally. I never got the, uh, bidet fitted, so...”

Christen laughs. Like, really laughs. And it feels like the first time Tobin’s heard someone laugh in days. It must’ve happened after they’d won, up there on the podium with Sonnett playing class clown. She doesn’t remember the last time. All she knows is it’s music to her ears. When it stops, Christen stills to a sunny smile and says, “It’s just nice to be helpful to someone, you know? It’s, umm… a good distraction from all the things that we’re just helpless to do anything about.”

“That makes sense.”

“Listen, it’s probably best that we, umm, keep a distance and self-isolate for a while because I, uh, don’t wanna risk infecting you. Not that I have it,” Christen quickly clarifies, eyes going wide, and Tobin’s trying to hide her amusement as she continues. “I don’t. I don’t think so. I just… it’d be good to talk sometimes. I have people I can call, but… it’d be good to feel like I have a friend _here_ , close by.”

“Yeah, totally,” Tobin says, the idea warming her. She understands it, that feeling of relief that there’s someone close by. She’d felt it from their first interaction. 

“And we can help each other.” 

“That’d be really nice, Christen.” 

“Okay then,” Tobin’s neighbor says with a firm nod.

“Okay.”

There’s a strange moment that sits there. Criss-cross applesauce, just sat between them. It’s like neither one of them knows quite what to say next, and perhaps the conversation’s over, but they linger anyway. Tobin wonders if Christen doesn’t want to leave either. It’s the only time Tobin’s seen another human since she went to the store and she doesn’t want it to be over yet. But they’re relative strangers. And, right now, she can’t think of anything to say. About the toilet paper in her hand. About the insane world outside their door. About any of it. 

Eventually, Christen repeats another, “Okay,” and then adds, “Well, I better get back to, uh, my work. I was just… attempting to, umm, organize a Zoom catch-up with any of my colleagues who want to check-in about, you know, like… how they’re doing. I work in HR and a lot of them got furloughed or they’re struggling working from home. So.” 

“That’s an awesome idea,” Tobin can’t help but remark, because there’s something so undeniably warm and soothing about her presence. “You like helping people, huh?”

“Doesn’t everyone?” Christen laughs. 

_Not like you_ , Tobin thinks. She only smiles and says, “I should let you get back to saving the world then.”

Christen rolls her eyes. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“No, no. I get it,” Tobin teases her, putting her hands up in surrender, though one of them is still clutching the pack of toilet paper. “You got things to do, other people to save.”

Though it does little to conceal the way she flushes, Christen shakes her head. “Shut up.”

“I’m just saying–” 

“Okay, okay. I’m going now,” Christen says, backing away further to make her point. There’s a smile she can’t shake, betraying her amusement. “Enjoy your toilet paper, loser.”

When she disappears from sight, Tobin can’t shake her own smile either as she thinks to herself about her helpful upstairs neighbor. Just as cute as she remembered her. But had she always been so warm, so talkative? It seems impossible now that Tobin hadn’t stopped to talk to her for longer, hadn’t eked out every second of conversation with this person at every chance she’d got, hadn’t at least become hugging acquaintances. And there’s a part of her that feels the loss of contact as if they were that familiar, the inability to hug this particular person holding its own unique sting. She feels herself missing something she never had.

Maybe it’s not too late. 

*

The next time Tobin heads out to the store, a few days later, she thinks of Christen, the kind neighbor who’d thought of her. She texts to ask if Christen needs anything else, knowing that it’s highly unlikely she’d have much to offer but wanting to strike up a conversation more than anything. In the days since she’d arrived home, she’s had a couple of meetings with Mark, with Vlatko, with Pinoe, with her family. But still she’d felt most comforted by talking face-to-face with Christen, even if only for a few minutes.

She drops her phone down on the bed and waits. She makes herself a breakfast with what’s left over and, when there’s still no response, Tobin kills some time making a half-hearted attempt to transition the contents of her suitcase back into her wardrobe. She’s got her head in the closet when she hears a quiet buzz coming from the bed. When she turns, she sees the phone lit up with a reply. 

_If you can get tampons, I would seriously owe you my life. Thought I was on top of everything but it turns out my cycle did not get furloughed_ , Christen’s text reads, and then it finishes with the wide-eyed blushing face emoji, along with gritted teeth. 

Tobin snorts to herself before shooting back, _I got you_. 

Abandoning her task halfway through, she grabs her keys and heads out straight away, her phone buried in the pocket of her hoodie. Her mission assigned, she’s suddenly wasting no time, and whatever half-considered plan to write down a shopping list is entirely forgotten. 

When she gets to the store, she finds herself in two minds about which tampons to choose, initially selecting her own preference, before adding a few other options to her basket too. With the favor at the front of her mind, she’s reminded of Christen’s current situation, feeling keenly sympathetic to the inevitable discomfort. It prompts her to choose from the skeleton selection of candy that’s available: chocolate, chocolate and a little more chocolate ought to do it. She also grabs a pack of herbal tea and, with the best of intentions, checks for Tylenol, only to be disappointed. 

Tobin manages to remember a few of the items she’d been needing herself, successfully finding roughly half of them before just giving up entirely. Her haul ends up mostly an assortment of period essentials, with a smattering of basic food items that will keep her cupboards barely stocked for all of about 48 hours. 

When she gets back to the apartment, she notices her heating pad on top of the dresser in her bedroom. _Perfect_ , she thinks, grabbing it to add with the rest. She leaves the carefully-collated assortment in front of Christen’s door, then texts her from a few steps down the hall: _Delivery!_

Christen’s quick to answer the door, peering out with a broad smile on her face as she clocks Tobin from a distance. When she crouches down to survey the items, her voice comes out small: “Oh my god. Did you… You made me a care package.” 

Tobin laughs it off. “Yeah, I guess I did. I hope you feel better.” 

“Thank you,” Christen says, her voice marked with surprise still. A teasing lilt creeping in, she adds, “Looks like you’re a regular superhero yourself, huh?”

Tobin lifts one shoulder, the picture of nonchalance. “Just doing my part around here.”

“It’s very noble of you and I appreciate it.” Christen gives a grateful nod. “I’ll let you get to, umm, your next mission. I assume you’ve got things to do, other people to save?”

“Oh yeah, just squeezing you in before I go help a cat out of a tree.”

“Thanks Tobes,” she replies fondly, the nickname going unnoticed at first, until Tobin’s walking slowly back downstairs, the words echoing in her mind. It’s a warm feeling to have been able to make her neighbor’s day, especially given how much Christen’s done for her already. 

A few hours later, she’s lying across the sofa when her phone lights up with a text that says: _This heat pad works miracles._

Seconds later, she sees a link to a video appear below the message. Mariah Carey – Hero. 

She sends a laughing emoji back, and then clicks on it. There’s no harm in a little solo karaoke with no else around.

*

As she comes to accept that this strange new reality isn’t such a short-term one, there are adjustments to make for training. Pierre sends over an adapted training plan to allow her to make the best of what she’s working with, and it’s daunting to look around the apartment space and accept that it’s all she has now. There’s such an intense pang of longing for vast fields of green, people jogging around her or making conversation or ball-juggling. To Tobin, her teammates had always been ripe for a nutmeg. She’d shoot the ball through one person’s legs before picking it up to tap it through another’s, only then to bounce it on the top of her foot before scoping out her next victim. 

She was never a big talker, but she misses being the listener amongst the crowd. She misses being around them – teammates, family, friends, strangers. Company.

Now, her shiny, grey apartment feels cold and empty. 

It feels a little less like a sanctuary, a little more like a cage. 

The coffee table where she’d propped up her legs while playing Mario Kart with Harry is repurposed as the surface for tricep dips. The corner, beneath the framed photo of herself holding Tucker and Bailey while her sister smiles at her, is the spot for extended wall sits that leave her legs trembling. The bookshelf filled with worn paperbacks borrowed from friends and teammates is moved to allow space for her body conditioning routine. 

There’s at least some relief once she’s finished reading over the new training plan as the scheduled Thorns call comes around. She balances the laptop on her little orange table on the balcony, happy to get some fresh air, only giving a few surreptitious glances to Christen’s balcony overhead, and watches as the little squares appear in a gallery: Kling, Lindsey, Sinc, Menges, Ellie, Simone, Gabby, A.D., all of them one by one and then – she’d almost forgotten – Becky. She finds herself smiling about it, brightening at the reminder as her teammates give their newest addition a teasing cheer. 

What follows is an hour of Mark trying to keep them, albeit half-jokingly, in order as everyone checks in. One by one, they’re given a chance to share their situation and any concerns, each one of them using the time to rally the others. 

Sinc’s stuck in Florida, Kling’s bored out of her mind, Becky’s working her way through half of Powell’s, Lindsey’s gone home to Denver for a little while. Oh, and got a dog. 

Tobin’s one of the last. She simply says she’s at home alone in Portland missing them, missing the Park, but that they’ll be together soon. “It’ll be even fucking sweeter,” she says, and Mark follows it up with an enthusiastic, “Fuck yeah,” that makes her laugh.

There’s no doubt she feels better for having talked to her fellow Thorns, for having seen their smiling faces and sat amid the banter once again. The team environment is all she’s known her whole life: noise, chaos, camaraderie. Before football, she’d had her family, she’d had sisters arguing and organized fun and people always up in each other’s space. It’s what she’s used to, even while being able to entertain herself perfectly well. It’s always been there in the backdrop at the very least. 

Knowing that Lindsey had opted to head to Colorado, it makes Tobin wonder about Florida – or somewhere else, somewhere she’ll not feel so alone. The feeling of missing people sneaks up so often, so out-of-the-blue, it can be hard to know how best to manage it. Sometimes it’s specific. Sometimes it’s the very particular feeling of sitting around a table with Pinoe, Ash, Ali and Lyss, venting or joking around or righting the world’s wrongs. Sometimes it’s the ache of her back as she runs, half-bent over, chasing after her tiny nephews. Sometimes it’s her mom and the hugs she’d give, or the way she’d fondly say “Tobes” like her daughter was her favorite person in the world, or the food she’d make just to bring their family together.

It’s that last little thought that compels her to action. She decides, suddenly, that she wants to make her mom’s bolognese recipe. A taste of home.

She gets her mom to text her the whole thing, because it’s not like she can remember – it’s not like she’d ever been able to stand still long enough to help with making it. Then she heads to the store, picks up what she needs, and finds every little thing except for the actual pasta. 

For some reason it’s this, above all else, that feels most crushing. 

It feels like falling at the last hurdle. It feels like losing in the final. It feels fucking terrible because all she wants is to walk into her mom’s kitchen and smell it. All she wants is to walk into her mom’s arms and have her promise everything’s going to be fine. All she wants is her mom.

 _Can’t find pasta anywhere_ , she texts her mom back, adding a broken heart emoji.

Seconds later, her mom asks, _You want me to send you some in the mail? You can have it in a few days then, sweetie._ It makes Tobin want to cry. 

Instead of replying directly to the caring offer, she simply texts back, _I miss you._ The feeling of loneliness is overwhelming as she stands, basket hanging on her forearm, in the middle of a half-empty store. 

She’s still looking down at her phone when she notices Christen has texted her. She’s sent a cute dog video with the note: _If you’re missing sports, I thought you might enjoy the puppy Olympics._ It’s a silly video of two dogs very lazily fighting over a chew toy while a voice commentates over the scene like it’s an extremely serious Olympic final. 

Still feeling choked up, Tobin’s relieved to laugh to herself. She’s relieved to feel the heaviness dissipate, the pain in her throat easing. Even if it makes her look a little crazy in the middle of the grocery store.

She immediately replies to Christen, _So you’re a dog person then?_

 _Ohhhhhhh yeah_ , Christen texts, with the puppy emoji. 

Tobin takes a deep breath, steadying herself, looking back up at the empty shelves. Before she can think twice about it, she taps out: _Store was out of pasta. Any chance you have some and want to claim the biggest IOU of all time?_

Christen sends back: _I have tagliatelle, lasagne, fusilli, some weird pasta I found last week called trottole, and a little bit of penne. What’s your poison?_

First, Tobin replies with a Youtube link to Wind Beneath My Wings, then says: _Hero. Any of the shapes pls!!!!_

It’s so casual, so easy, but to Tobin it feels like a lifeline. Where she’d been frozen in the middle of the aisle, unsure of what to do next, she suddenly comes to life. She’s soon marching off to the checkout.

 _Delivery incoming_ , is the response from Christen when she looks down at her phone once she’s out of the store, and Tobin has to laugh at the plane emojis she uses, along with a brown package one. 

A few minutes later, Christen sends the emoji of the mailbox with the signal flag up. 

When she gets home, her arms already weighed down with bags, Tobin wanders to her door to discover an unopened pack of fusilli on the doormat, along with a tupperware container with a note on the top. Impatient as ever, she drops everything else so that she can open the box to a great waft of freshly baked brownies, only to discover a delicious-looking batch inside.

 _Brownies?!?! Is it too soon to ask you to move in with me?_ she types out, before tapping back on the last sentence, second-guessing herself. In its place, she writes, _I owe you SO BIG._

_I’m now worried you have a nut allergy. Or some special athlete diet. If so, I’m so sorry. Grab epi pen immediately just in case. If not, you’re welcome! Salted caramel and chocolate, btw_ , Christen adds.

 _No allergies_ , Tobin sends back, adding only the shaka sign emoji. 

_In that case, enjoy. I hope the pasta selection is to your liking._

Sensing the conversation beginning to naturally wrap itself up and wishing for it not to end, Tobin taps to call. Before Christen can say a word, she rushes to say: “I owe you my life. Or, like, at least food, and lots of it. I, uh… We should properly hang after this. Maybe after the two weeks of isolation are up, just in case? Like, I don’t have anyone else around really so it’d be cool to have at least one person for company.”

“You want to do this thing together? Quarantine buddies?” 

Feeling the dizzying swoop of her stomach, she musters all her cool to reply, “Yeah. How ‘bout it?”

“Those brownies are that good, huh?” 

Tobin bites down a smile, though Christen can’t see it. 

“Thought you’d never ask,” Christen says with a warm, easy laugh that does nothing to silence the voice in the back of Tobin’s head that says _you’re in trouble_. 

A little while later, she takes a picture of her masterful fusilli bolognese, made just how her mom makes it, even turning on portrait mode to capture it. She sends the photograph to Christen with a short, _Thank you._ Then she sends it to her mom, with nothing but a heart. 

Cindy replies just as she’s tucking in: _You found some pasta! I sent you some anyway, Tobes, so it should get to you in a couple days. Love you._

Suddenly, Tobin doesn’t feel alone at all.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the encouraging responses to the first chapter! It makes all the difference. 
> 
> Another big thank you to my beta reader who doesn't even read fic for these two outside of this, she's just a very kind, patient friend, and it's been a bit of a week. So, thanks for still casting your eyes over this chapter and giving all the best advice.
> 
> Sending good vibes to wherever you are in the world. I really hope you enjoy part two.

The day after they agree to buddy up, Tobin’s enjoying the last of Christen’s brownies with an extra-delicious twist. She sends a photo to Christen: warmed brownie in pride of place, salted caramel oozing to meet melting vanilla ice cream, made all the sweeter by the fact that it had been the last tub on the shelf. It's a dream dessert, by her own reckoning. And it seems she's not the only one to make that assessment – Christen's response is quick and blunt: _I hate you._

 _Why! You saved yourself some too, right?_ Tobin writes back, suddenly feeling guilty. 

_Yeah, but I haven’t got any freezer space left to get ice cream so you win, loser,_ is Christen’s reply, accompanied by a few self-pitying sad faces that make Tobin chuckle to herself. She’s imagining Christen upstairs pouting and the thought makes her a little sad not to be able to see it for herself, cruel as the idea may be. 

Her good conscience recovers quickly, though, to say, _I thought we were quarantine buddies now? I can just put some scoops in a bowl for you._

Christen’s response is almost instant: _Really?_

Tobin’s still too busy smiling to herself to reply before the bubble appears with the ellipses again; Christen’s typing. It doesn’t take long before the same video she’d sent days before appears: Mariah Carey – Hero. 

Tobin sends back: _Big fan of Mariah, huh?_

_No. Big fan of my hero._

Tobin can’t help but laugh. She also can’t help the pinkness of her cheeks, feeling suddenly grateful that they can’t see each other. _Is that meant to be me?_ she asks.

 _Depends_ , Christen texts, and then a second message comes through: _When are these scoops coming to me?_

 _Give me five_ , Tobin replies, attaching a few laughing emojis. She searches out her slides, throws on her favorite claret-coloured Bodega hat to cover up the disheveled mess that is her hair, quickly checks her appearance in a mirror, then scoops out a generous portion of ice cream from the tub into a bowl, her own half-eaten dessert now left neglected on the counter. The excuse to go up and see Christen is truly the most excitement she’s felt all day – before now, the bright idea of warming the brownies up had been the peak. 

It’s a few minutes later when she’s knocking on Christen’s door, placing the bowl on the doormat before stepping back the requisite distance, the retreat slow and reluctant. The no man’s land of her new position in the hallway makes her feel awkward suddenly, and she doesn’t know what to do with her hands. She doesn’t even realize she’s started whistling until she stops abruptly at the sound of the door opening after a few seconds. 

“My hero!” Christen says, over the top and laughing at herself. She’s all in turquoise today, a loose-fitting t-shirt with another pair of her beloved yoga pants, the swoosh embroidered at her hip. Tobin’s more distracted by the way her laugh sounds bigger today – natural and easy and infectious. It’s a little like stepping out of a shadow on a sunny day to be suddenly under the beam of Christen’s warmth. “Wait. Let me–hang on.” Christen points to her, walking backwards a few steps while keeping her eyes fixed on her. She has the bowl clutched to her chest like it’s something precious. “I’m gonna get my brownies before this melts, but stay for a second.”

As she disappears into her apartment with the bowl, leaving the door wide open, Tobin subconsciously steps closer to the door before remembering herself. Stopping where she is, she calls out, “Did you, like, warm them up in preparation?”

“Of course I did!” she hears her neighbor reply, before she reappears. 

“Okay. Can I go get mine then? I abandoned it to come bring your special delivery.”

Christen screws her face up, then hides half of it behind her hand – a thin, shiny band decorating each of her fingers, Tobin sees now. “You did? I was only teasing. I didn’t mean to make you a brownie martyr. Go get yours.”

Tobin holds her gaze for a fraction of a second and then breaks into a half-run back to the stairwell, speeding up once she’s out of Christen’s sight. She trips a little on one of the steps, her slide slipping away from her foot a little, and there’s a mildly terrifying rush of adrenaline as she contemplates the almost-injury that just took place. She has visions of trying to explain the old brownie dash to Vlatko, one foot in a boot as she stumbles her way through her sugar-addled account of things. A haunting thought. 

Thankfully, she manages the rest of the way without incident, picking up the now-soupy bowl of ice cream and brownie and heading back up to Christen’s hallway only slightly out of breath. She takes the return journey a little slower – partly because of the near-miss on the way down, partly to preserve her dignity as an elite athlete. 

“You came back!” Christen exclaims as soon as Tobin’s back in sight. She’s now sat cross-legged in her doorway, with the bowl balancing precariously in her lap. “I can’t believe you abandoned your food for me.”

Tobin only shrugs, and realizes that the awkwardness of being stood up while her neighbor sits on the floor just won’t do. She slides down the wall a couple of metres away and mirrors Christen’s position. Impromptu hallway brownie picnic, it is. 

Brightly, her voice softening enough to allow for a serious answer, Christen asks, “So, how’re you, umm, doing today?” 

“I’m good. Like, same old really. Trying not to lose my mind,” Tobin says, shrugging it off casually in an attempt not to bring the mood down too far.

Christen looks at her carefully for a second and Tobin worries she’s ruined it, this easy rapport they’ve found together. Christen’s gaze drifts down to her lap, where the bowl still balances, cutting a little of her brownie off with the side of her spoon. When she looks up again, she gives an understanding nod. It’s sympathetic, warm. Tobin worries for a moment that she’ll say something soft and consoling, that she’ll allow the unintended solemnity of Tobin’s words to ruin the lightheartedness of the moment. But she seems to sense Tobin’s desire to take a breath, instead rallying the mood with a smile and asking, “Okay, tell me, what dumb thing are you missing the most? Not the loved ones or the work stuff, but something totally ridiculous.” 

Tobin thinks about it for a moment, pushing past faces and memories to reach for something inane. She takes another bite to give herself time, drawing the spoon out slowly before she says: “Not having to cook for myself all the time. I’m, like, the worst cook.” She laughs at herself, haunted by far too many memories of ill-fated attempts and ruined dishes. “I’ve been on the national team for so long, I just never really had to, like, figure out normal adult life. And now here I am. I think my mom’s, like, ready to call the authorities or something, she’s so concerned.”

Christen’s laugh is a goofy one; it’s unsteady, a little louder than she means. “That’s very sweet.”

“She’s the best,” Tobin admits, and there’s no hiding the melancholy in those words. The translation is easy: _I miss her_. She sees Christen’s understanding in her gaze, compassion greeting her in those enigmatic green eyes. Tobin clears her throat, rallying the mood to ask, “So what’s your dumb thing then, huh?”

“Hmm,” she says, her lips pressing together to make the sound and then lifting to a smile. Her eyes drift off to the side, deep in thought as Tobin just watches her. “Okay, you’re gonna make fun of me for this–”

“I like this answer already.” Tobin’s chuckling, leaning back against the wall as the bubbles of laughter trickle out. Finishing the last of her dessert, after a few last licks of the spoon, she drops it into the empty bowl before moving it to the floor beside her and stretching out her legs.

Christen’s eyes come to life, her face animating as she starts, and she’s conducting her words with her spoon in her hand, gesticulating: “So, there’s, umm, an older lady called Elena a few doors down from you and she is very fond of me–”

“Cocky.”

“Honest,” Christen argues with a self-satisfied smile, before getting back to her story, remnants of brownie forgotten. “Anyway, she, umm, always used to give me all the neighborhood gossip. I got a full run-down of everyone in the building. She knows _everything_. I swear she noses through people’s mail sometimes. But she’s cute and harmless. I haven’t seen her lately, and I guess her sources are, umm, limited since no one’s going anywhere.”

Tobin pulls her knees up to make herself more comfortable, leaning her elbow against one of them to prop her chin up with her hand. “When you say she knows everything…” 

“Oh, yeah, she basically has a whole file on you, hotshot.”

“Did she give you a rundown?” Tobin asks, suddenly nervous to know what this stranger thinks of her, or at any rate, what this stranger might have told Christen.

A spoonful of ice cream balancing on her tongue, Christen says, “Yep. She calls you ‘Nutmeg Spice’, by the way. On your floor, it’s Nutmeg Spice, Playbill–” 

“Playbill? What?”

“The guy, Bill, who sings operatic Les Misérables at all hours. You haven’t heard him?”

“I’m not home much, clearly. I missed that.”

“Okay, and then there’s also Chatty Cathy, the Ugly Sisters – self-titled, according to Elena.” She’s counting them out on her fingers as Tobin smirks, listening eagerly to find out the rest of the lineup. “Who else? Oh, there’s Regis and Kelly. Elena just thinks he’s too old for her, I guess. Their real names are Pete and Alexis, and they're kinda loud, to be honest, but they have an adorable little red dachshund called Cheeto.” Christen pauses momentarily, as if needing to spare a thought for Cheeto. “And then there’s the Backstreet Boys.”

“The–?”

“They’re, umm, three guys. Bachelors, I think. At least one of them is called Nick. And her references aren’t super up to date. I’m pretty sure she thinks Justin Timberlake’s in the band.”

Tobin raises her eyebrows, taking in all of this new information. She hasn’t really ever had a chance to get to know the people in her building, so it’s the most she’s ever been aware of her neighbors. She’d barely recognized Christen days earlier. “Sounds like I got off lucky with Nutmeg Spice.”

“She’s fond of you.” Christen makes her point by scrunching her nose. “Even though you didn’t respond to her Christmas card.”

Tobin winces. “Did she give _you_ a nickname?” 

“Oh, I’m Sweet One.” Christen punctuates it with an angelic smile, prompting Tobin to shake her head with a snigger. 

“Of course you are. I’m assuming you _did_ do the whole Christmas card thing.” 

“We’re like this, you see.” Christen twists her forefinger and middle finger together, teasing as she adds, “Me and Elena, we’ve got a special bond. But I can put in a good word for you.” Her smile sparkles again and it’s impossible not to be charmed by it. 

Tobin almost suggests – flippantly, thoughtlessly – that Christen just add Tobin’s name onto her card next time to help her out but stops her mouth just in time. Her face flushes at the thought, the rush of blood beneath the surface a tingling sensation. Instead, she recovers to reply, “You can mention I was your ice cream hero.”

“I’m gonna have to pay you back, you know, now that we’re officially gonna be quarantine buddies,” Christen says, the chime of her spoon against her bowl signaling her final bite, and though Tobin wants to argue – she wants to point out all the favors Christen’s done for her already – she’s too intrigued by the suggestion. She lets Christen carry on. “We should make a plan. When our 14 days are up, as recommended by WHO–” 

“By who?”

“By W-H-O. World Health Organiza–” Christen notices the smirk. “Oh, you’re just teasing me. Tobin!” 

Tobin’s smirk widens to a grin as she relishes the familiar way that Christen says her name. “Sorry. You were saying?” 

“I was saying, before you rudely interrupted, we could have dinner together. I think it’s Thursday, right? The day. Celebrate making it through two weeks of this? I’m thinking we could eat in or, alternatively... eat in.”

“It’s a hard call. But maybe we should, like, eat in,” Tobin says, pretending to think about it seriously as she plays along. 

“Okay. I think that works for me. On one condition?” 

“What?” Tobin asks, fully accepting that she’d do just about anything the woman asks at this point. 

“We get a little dressy. Like we’re going out.” 

“Chris–” 

“No, come on! Don’t you wanna find out if I own anything except yoga pants?” 

Tobin laughs at Christen’s self-awareness before nodding. “Okay, now that would really be something to behold.” 

“First off: you’re an asshole,” Christen says, holding out her thumb like she really is counting, but there’s a laugh carrying every word. She points her index finger next, adding, “Secondly, I think I’ve made my point. I would like the chance to, umm, do my hair, put some makeup on, get a dress out of the closet.” 

Tobin adjusts her snapback as she responds, pulling it down a little further as if the thought of having to go without it is prompting a nervous tick. “Is this, like, mandatory?” 

“No, but you can just act like we’re going out anyway.” Christen’s eyes look so hopeful as she says it, Tobin feels her resistance breaking down just staring into them. “Wear your best sneakers or whatever it is you would do.” 

“I did get some new–” 

“Yes, see. It’s just… I want it to be a thing to get excited for, to have a reason to make an effort.” 

Tobin doesn’t say that Christen alone, just her presence, feels like reason enough for her. She simply concedes, “Okay, Christen. I’ll brush my hair for you.” 

“Thank you,” Christen says, fond but ever so slightly exasperated at the same time. Tobin just grins back, unable to do anything but smile when she looks back at her favorite neighbor. If the base level expectation is brushed hair, she might just about manage to abide by Christen’s rules. 

*

Thursday evening comes around slower than Tobin would like, but she manages to use the time – those five long days – to her advantage. She’s started to get used to the solo workouts; they’re made easier when more of the equipment she’d been sent by her trainer arrives: new weights and resistance bands, an exercise ball, the Peloton. Plenty more things to clutter the hallway, of course. There have also been more than a few rallying catch-ups with teammates, old friends and family members to keep her going. It’s something of a comfort to still have some way to see people. Even a pixelated picture on a screen can’t put a dampener on hearing her niece say “Aunt To-To” for the first time, followed by a trill of giggles. And she continues to text back and forth easily and often with Christen, like that’s just a thing they do, trading funny little observations and news updates and anecdotes. Tobin half wishes one of them needed something from the other, but Christen’s been well equipped since her weekend ice cream emergency, and Tobin doesn’t want to take advantage of her kindness.

She’s fizzing with anticipation by Thursday morning. After a family video call over breakfast, she has a quick catch-up with HAO before playing Mario Kart for a couple of hours, and then heads out on a short run to get some cardio in. The fresh air, sun on her skin and that rush of endorphins feel truly medicinal. Just being outside for a short while has her feeling refreshed and relaxed ahead of those much-anticipated dinner plans. And then she takes a long, hard look at her apartment and the nerves come rushing back.

They’d settled on Tobin’s place as their venue for Thursday night dinner. It wasn’t like there were a lot of options and, after a passing mention of Christen’s noisy neighbours, Tobin found herself offering to host before she could think twice about it. 

But looking around the open-plan living space that makes up most of her apartment, Tobin suddenly feels self-conscious over the rather drab, unloved room. There’s little to decorate it but the clutter that lies here and there, scattered about the place like little nests of mess. Each one largely reflects moments of distraction that’ve been interrupted and forgotten: deliveries that’ve been opened and then abandoned, the Switch lying across the sofa cushions, the mini soccer ball left hazardously in the middle of the kitchen floor. It’s a trail of Tobin, as her mother would put it.

She feels sure she’d not make much of a dinner host at the best of times but now, given the circumstances, she feels particularly inadequate. It’s been a while since she’s even eaten at the table; the piles of mail, magazines and paperwork make that abundantly clear. All of her recent attempts to cook for herself have ended with Tobin curled up on the sofa with a plate in her lap, or perched at the breakfast bar – and there was one particular time standing up at the kitchen counter because Christen was texting her and she was too distracted to move. 

She clears everything off the table, carefully organizing the first few pieces of mail before giving up and simply moving it in bulk to her bedroom. For a moment, she frets at the new mess she’s piling up on top of her chest of drawers, before realizing that there’s no logical reason why Christen would ever be seeing the inside of her bedroom.

Which leaves only one more thing to worry about: Christen’s dress code request.

It’s not that she doesn’t like to dress up at all – though she wears sweats like a second skin – but it’s more that the dressing up feels a little too much like date attire when she considers the fact that it’s one-on-one, for Christen’s eyes only. She briefly considers texting Pinoe for fashion advice but thinks better of it just as soon as she contemplates the idea of telling her about the context of Christen, about this weird, flirty friendship that’s forming between them; Pinoe would surely make it A Thing. When it’s absolutely not A Thing. It’s definitely not A Big Thing, anyway.

She needs to dress like it’s not A Thing while also dressing like she made some semblance of an effort, per Christen’s suggestion. 

In the end, after much back-and-forth thanks to all that extra time on her hands, she settles on a fresh and clean, fitted white tee French-tucked into skinny jeans that are ripped at the knee, with her favorite blue Jumpmans. The ones she doesn’t wear for just anybody.

It feels like an effort has been made. She’s certainly thought about it enough. (There are jeans involved. She can’t even remember the last time she wore jeans at all at this point.)

And then she opens the door to Christen. 

Christen, who had always kept her hair tied up before, has wild curls sprawled freely across her shoulders. Her eyes seem bigger than ever, her cheeks shimmering just slightly. Her dress is covered in a colourful, printed pattern that, on anyone else, would draw the eye but can’t quite compete with the striking features of her face. Has it always seemed so perfectly symmetrical?

It takes a moment too long for Tobin to adjust to the sight of Christen, now minus the yoga pants she’s grown so accustomed to, almost fond of. Her neighbor is quiet too, eyes scanning Tobin’s efforts as though to appraise them, and it makes Tobin feel uncharacteristically nervous. Then a smile breaks through, like sun bursting through the clouds; it’s slight at first, then Christen’s expression softens and her eyes sparkle before meeting Tobin’s. It has a heady effect on the soccer player. Suddenly, she feels flustered, her words not coming, even as the silence begins to overstay its welcome. 

“Hey,” Christen says first, and Tobin’s relieved as she adds, “You look great.”

“You too. You, uh, scrub up well,” Tobin replies, playing it off as coolly as she possibly can.

“Thanks.” Christen seems to take it in stride, unaffected by any accidental staring that may have occurred on Tobin’s part. “Whatever happens with dinner, I had my own mini spa all day leading up to this so I feel great now. Nails done,” she puts her hands up to prove it, “meditated for a while, got my favorite dress out.”

Tobin sees it now, the way she radiates with a brighter beam than normal. It’s as though something inside Christen has lit up, or perhaps it had always been there but Tobin hadn’t been close enough to see it before. She notices now that the distance between them hadn’t allowed for a true view of Christen’s eyes at all, moss green and almost sparkling even in the half-light. 

Realizing that they’re still standing awkwardly in the doorway, Tobin leads her into the apartment while making excuses for the general lack of furnishings and home decor. Christen trails close behind, the proximity a strange thing to get used to suddenly, feeling almost intimate despite how utterly normal it is – or would be in any other circumstance, at least. She's close enough that Tobin can feel the warmth of her; the unfamiliarity of it after two weeks of isolation heightens the sensation. It feels as powerful as touch. “I’m not really here a lot. Elena might’ve told you, I don’t know.” She laughs to herself, turning her head to catch Christen just rolling her eyes. “But it means I haven’t really, uh, like… fixed the place up too much.”

“What’s the painting?” Christen asks, noticing the canvas on the wall. It features a half black, half white backdrop, with what looks like two paint strokes that are a spectrum of colour in horizontal lines – an equals sign in rainbow over the monochrome. 

“Oh, uh…” Tobin runs her hand through her hair before flipping it over to one side, hiding her face behind it a little as she admits, “That’s, uh… That’s mine. It’s kind of about, uh, disrupting the binaries of the status quo with the, like, intersecting, kind of, like, social factors that break with traditional norms, I guess. Overlapping issues of identity that are discriminated against, you know?” Suddenly realizing how much she’s said while staring at the painting in question, she turns back to Christen, whose gaze is fixed on her.

There’s a smile stretching out seemingly unconsciously as Christen tilts her head, a curious look in her eyes. Tobin feels like a puzzle she’s trying to work out. She’s a little self-conscious as she clears her throat. “So you’re a hotshot painter too?” Christen says eventually, nodding as though taking in the new information, her bottom lip pouted. “That’s really something, Tobin.”

Scratching the nape of her neck and looking back at the canvas, Tobin brushes it off. “I was just, like, experimenting with stuff.”

“No, seriously! I’m impressed. I can basically do stickmen.”

Tobin bites on her lip to hide her smile, feeling her skin flush a little at the praise. She runs a hand through her hair again, can’t help it, a nervous tension taking hold of her. It feels particularly personal, particularly private, that Christen has seen and noticed her artwork straight away. It’s a side of herself that she doesn’t often show even to her teammates, one that feels more experimental, more subjective than the art she creates with her feet; the stakes are higher, the validation even more meaningful. Not everyone understands it, and yet here is Christen, _impressed_ , with a smile as generous as any Tobin’s been gifted. 

“Well, I, uh… I’m not gonna be very impressive in the kitchen so I was thinking we could just order food, if that’s cool.” Tobin speaks reluctantly, drawing out the sentence as she tries to read Christen’s face for a reaction. 

“Of course,” Christen says cheerfully once she’s tortured Tobin long enough. 

“I’m a lame host, but uh…” 

“Tobin, I haven’t been able to hang out with another human in two weeks. You could let me starve and I’d probably still thank you for the invite.” Christen nudges her a little, sending a jolt through Tobin that takes her entirely by surprise. “Your place is so–”

“Boring?” 

“I was gonna say spacious.” Christen steps away to make her point and Tobin feels every inch of the space between them. “Mine is, like, half the size.” 

“Yeah, I, uh… I’ve stayed at a lot of friends’ houses over the years so I figured the least I could do was get a place with a spare room to return the favor. But I’m not here often enough to make the most of it,” Tobin explains, looking around and feeling bad for not appreciating her surroundings a little more. In fact, over the course of the past two weeks, she’d felt quite the opposite about her home. She’d felt the walls closing in, she’d felt the pain of no more outdoor space than a small balcony, she’d felt sick of every plain, undecorated room. That’s the only reason her painting had made its way onto the wall: her little Tuesday project. 

“Well, your newest friend is very appreciative, at least,” Christen says warmly, but her eyes are more serious, like she’d noticed Tobin drifting off into her thoughts. “And since you offered to host, I thought I’d try and contribute something.”

“Are you always so helpful?” Tobin says with a laugh. 

“You don’t get nicknamed Sweet One for nothing, Nutmeg Spice,” Christen teases, and it feels like a fond reminder of the fun she usually has with her teammates, that easy rapport among the big, loving group feeling a million miles away right now. Still, she relishes the echo of that feeling, distracted by it as Christen explains, “No, so, I, umm, made a playlist. It was something to do, you know?”

Tobin fights to ignore the very, very loud voice in her head that’s screaming, _she made you a mix_. Instead, she just picks up her small Bose speaker and says, “You can connect through the, like, Bluetooth thing. That’s awesome, Chris.” The nickname comes naturally, and Christen seems not to react to it. With no objections, Tobin decides she might stick with it.

“Well, wait till you find out my taste first, but it’s pretty chill.” Looking down at the playlist she’s pulled up on her phone as she settles on the edge of the corner sofa, Christen adds, “I think you’ll like it.” 

Distracted by the sight of Christen making herself comfortable in the lounge, looking like she fits better in the apartment than the furniture, Tobin replies, “I’m sure it’ll be great.” The corner of her mouth twists into an awkward smile. “Let’s just, uh, order food and then get that set up.” 

*

Their Thai food tastes better than Tobin has ever remembered food tasting. Perhaps that’s how it goes when you’ve endured day after day of your own cooking, then finally get rewarded with a quality local restaurant delivery. There’s also the pleasure of company, the atmosphere and ambience that comes from talking and eating with chilled music filling the room in the background. 

They have their feast spread across the coffee table, the remains of green curry and pad Thai and fragrant jasmine rice in haphazardly scattered takeout containers. Soon, Tobin tells herself, she'll get up and put them in the fridge – there's more than enough for lunch tomorrow; maybe Christen could come round again. It's only fair, since she paid for half of it. But for now, Tobin's lying, too full to move, across one side of the couch, eyes closed as she recovers from her ambitious appetite. Christen, on the other hand, has her legs folded beneath her, hidden under the skirt of her dress, upright at the opposite end. 

“Tobin?” Christen says, one hand on her stomach and the other wrapped around the wine glass in her hand. She takes a sip, Tobin’s eyes suddenly fixed on her, waiting. “This is… the best night I’ve had in weeks.”

Tobin looks down, her eyes glancing at her bare feet, one propped over the other – Jumpmans abandoned by the balcony door, long forgotten. A slanted smile fixes on her face before she looks up to reply, “I’d take that as more of a compliment if we weren’t, like, a few weeks into a global pandemic.” 

“It’s still a compliment. I promise.”

“Okay, well,” Tobin takes a modest sip from her own wine glass, “thank you.”

Christen shifts suddenly, distracted, as if reacting to something, and Tobin watches as she puts a hand behind her back to pull out a Playstation controller from between the sofa cushions. 

“Sorry about that. We could play sometime, if you like,” Tobin offers.

“Okay,” Christen accepts, her voice sounding unusually small. She puts it down again beside her before nodding in the direction of the mini basketball hoop that’s hung on the far wall across from them. “You wanna have a shootout to decide who washes up?”

“No way you’re washing up,” Tobin argues immediately, already realizing that this girl cannot stop with the helpfulness for a single minute. 

“See, that’s why I’ve got to beat you.”

“You want to beat me so that you can do a chore?”

Christen nods a single, affirmative nod. 

Tobin can’t help but groan a little, not wanting to move a muscle from where she has comfortably arranged herself. But she also can’t resist a competition – or Christen, it seems. She shifts to sit up and stretches for the mini basketball that’s strayed underneath the table. “Are we just, like, doing it from where we’re sitting?”

“Yes, but you’re a professional athlete so you have an advantage.”

“I’m not a basketball player!” Tobin points out, laughing at Christen’s argument.

“You know how to handle balls,” Christen counters, and it has Tobin choking on a sip of wine.

She puts aside the comment she really wants to make, instead pointing out, “I’m not allowed to touch the ball with my hands. It’s football. It’s with our feet. And the goal is a giant box, not a tiny hoop.” 

“Nope.” Christen stays stubborn, eyebrows raised as she makes her case. “You have to give me, umm, a higher… par.”

Tobin bursts out laughing, feeling a rush of affection for the woman at the other end of the couch. “You’re really mixing your sports today, Chris.” 

“Well, you can teach me later.”

Shaking her head, Tobin quips, “Someone has to.”

Christen throws a cushion at Tobin’s chest that is easily anticipated, but otherwise ignores her little comment to return to her main point: “So you agree then? You have to have some kind of handicap to make it fair?”

“Sure. We'll take turns and I have to get two in for every one you get in, because you want a walkover.” If an edge of competitiveness creeps in, Tobin’s won’t admit it. 

Christen’s laughing wildly, her eyebrows still raised high and wrinkling her forehead, outrage and amusement blended in perfect harmony, the sound of it warm and loud, and getting louder. “I'm gonna ignore your whining, but yes. I accept those terms.” 

Tobin's own laughs are chuckles, trickling out with her words, like hiccups of amusement. “You ever think about being a lawyer? Pretty sure you could talk anyone into anything.”

In the end, Christen proves to have more basketball skills at her fingertips than she’d previously owned up to. Tobin’s quick to complain about foul play, arguing for a review of their terms, but they come to an agreement quickly after almost knocking over the bookshelf on a bad throw. They wash up together – Tobin washes, Christen dries. It feels like a good idea until Christen’s struggling to find all the right cupboards and drawers to put things away, but she’s insistent on doing her part. She moves around the space easily, a grace about her even as she goes to put a wine glass where the bowls go for the second time in as many minutes. 

It's late before they know it. It feels so comfortable, like Christen's not her guest at all, moving shoeless and sleepy around the apartment, curls now disheveled from where she's run her hands through her hair, tied it back to keep it out of her face while they ate, flipped it one side to the other, a habit Tobin shares. No part of Tobin wants her to go; the opposite, in fact. It's like a whole evening goes by and Tobin doesn't think for one second about being locked in. She can't imagine a better evening. Perhaps it's some quarantine version of Stockholm Syndrome or perhaps it's real, but her face aches from smiling and her head is filled with Christen's playlist and there's not a single part of her that would change a moment of it.

It feels like rediscovery. A reimagining of what a truly special evening can be. A reminder that she can still find little pieces of magic in her day, even inside these same four walls that have seen her ache her way through workouts and force herself to learn to cook and smash a vase trying to break her own ball-juggling record (a mere five bounces in). 

And later, when it comes time for Christen to leave, when they’ve put it off as long as they possibly can, excuses disappearing, they linger just in front of the apartment door. Christen’s got her shoes hanging from her fingers for the journey back upstairs, voice quieter than Tobin’s ever heard it, “Hey. I can hug you now. If that’s not… weird.”

“Not weird at all.” A smile slants across Tobin’s face; she’d been thinking the same thing, distantly, hopefully. “Honestly, not to _make_ it weird but… I could really use a hug.” 

They slot together slowly, timidly, but easily. Their arms circle one another, Tobin’s looping around Christen’s waist as Christen’s wrap around her shoulders. Tobin’s face fits into the arch of Christen’s neck, lips brushing against the exposed skin there as she feels Christen’s hot breath tingling above the neckline of her t-shirt. The smell of her fills Tobin's senses: Thai food and the clean citrus of her shampoo where her hair's tickling Tobin's nose, light floral perfume at her pulse point.

It lasts a long time, perhaps a little too long for two people who’ve never hugged before, and Tobin almost thinks there’s a tiny extra squeeze in the middle somewhere, though maybe she’s imagining it. They stand there in silence, heartbeats against each other’s chests as the rhythm of their breaths synchronize. Before Tobin realizes it, they start to breathe together – steady and even. Calm. Though neither one of them says a thing, it’s undeniable: the comfort of being held and touched.

“You’ll come over tomorrow?” Tobin buries into Christen’s neck.

Her neighbor draws back, a hand lingering on her shoulder as she seems to check Tobin’s expression. “You aren’t going to be busy with work stuff?”

“I think I got a, like, fitness review Zoom call at eight, but after that… nothing really. Couple meetings in the afternoon.” Tobin shrugs, and they come apart as Christen’s hand goes to the latch of the door. “Come over. Whenever, really.”

“If you’re not too busy,” Christen replies, an edge of uncertainty about it.

A little more eager than she means, Tobin insists, “I’m not too busy.”

Christen smiles, giving a shy nod before opening the door, strappy gold sandals still dangling from her fingertips. “See you tomorrow then,” she says, turning back only once before heading off down the hallway.

As Tobin heads back inside, she can’t ignore the fact that, up until today, every day has felt like more of the same. Now she feels like she's been given a cheat code for coping through quarantine. It's simply Christen. Over and over. As many times as possible.

Her phone lights up where she’d left it on the sofa, and when she checks it, she reads: _Eggs or berries and yogurt for breakfast?_


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Tobin Tuesday!

Tobin’s still on her team call when she hears a knock at the door the next morning. She feels the light patter of knuckles against the hardwood echo low in her stomach, a gentle flutter, subtle enough to ignore with a poker face to camera; it’s not quite a blush, it’s not quite the heady, stirring feeling of that hug, the one she can’t stop thinking about, but it’s something, alright. 

The warm, easy smile she’s wearing as she listens to her teammates becomes a distracted grimace, her eyes drifting to the doorway to follow the direction of her thoughts. She’s among a smaller group than normal on the call this morning; perhaps with the full squad, someone would’ve caught her. Coach Parsons had wanted to bring together the 2020 season’s roster of forwards – a vast spectrum of experience from the captain to the rookies. The topics have ventured well off-track since the initial discussions of solo training, and Tobin suspects that’s exactly what Mark had hoped for when he set it up: the ice broken, a Thorns welcome from the admittedly more intimidating members of the team. 

Lindsey’s busy telling off her puppy when Tobin hears the faint sound of Christen at the door, and it’s just as well, because explaining the circumstances to her favorite teammate, her chosen sister, would inevitably unleash a whole world of unwanted speculation into her life. It’d be mid-morning before the younger faction of the national team were all briefed on the situation thanks to, probably, fabricated half-truths based on the smallest crumb of information. No doubt it’d be back to her real sisters, somehow, by dinner.

“I gotta go, guys,” Tobin says, having to cut Lindsey off to speak. Impatiently hovering above her chair, cursor lingering over the button to end the call, she can picture Christen standing on the doorstep, waiting with her sunny smile ready. The thought of it, that image in her mind, feels urgent. She can’t get away quick enough. 

“Oh, what, you got somewhere to be, Tobes?” Lindsey goads her. 

“Yeah, something like that. _Bye_ ,” she adds, a little sharper, a sisterly teasing about it. “Talk to you guys tomorrow probably.” 

“Thanks, Tobin!” the two rookies cheer as Sinc just waves her off and Lindsey says, “Bye, Tobes!” She holds up Ferguson to the camera as a parting gesture while Tobin hits ‘Leave Meeting’ with no further regard for the mewling puppy. 

When she opens her apartment door, a sigh of something like relief escapes her, that now-familiar smile of Christen’s there to greet her. Notably, though, it’s fainter than yesterday’s and, as Tobin thinks it, she sees that the hollows of Christen’s eyes are darker, her face a little gray. It’s hard to ignore the strain in her expression, even as Tobin’s eyes are drawn to admire the wild waves spilling over her shoulders in a perfect cascade, even as her neighbor speaks as warmly as ever. “Good morning! I come bearing fruit.”

It’s a service she could get used to, she thinks, being brought delicious food by a pretty stranger. Tobin takes the bag of berries and more, and leads her guest into the apartment. “Chris,” she gushes, gratefully, peering inside to admire the fresh selection bestowed upon her: punnets of picture-perfect pink raspberries and strawberries, bountiful blueberries spilling out impatiently, gleaming blackberries and cherries that look as delicious as candy. Tobin shoots a glance over her shoulder as they walk to the kitchen. “I don’t deserve you.” 

Christen laughs through a yawn, and Tobin can’t help but notice it this time. “You look kinda… tired. Are you okay? I’m sorry if you came down here early for me. You don’t need to–” 

Her neighbor sighs heavily and shakes her head. “I’m okay,” she insists, and it’s casual enough that any serious concern is offset, but still not convincing. “You’ll only laugh at me if I tell you.”

“I won’t laugh,” Tobin promises, stopping to turn around.

Christen stares her down as she decides whether or not to believe it. “You will, Tobin. I wouldn’t even blame you if you did.”

“I won’t laugh. I swear. What’s going on?” she pushes, nudging Christen as they continue through to the kitchen together.

Christen sighs again, her footsteps dragging as she follows Tobin in. As soon as they reach the countertop, she leans her weight on it with her elbows, rubbing her temples with her fingertips as Tobin begins setting out the spread of breakfast fruits. “It’s the neighbors again.”

“The loud ones?” Tobin starts, eyes darting up from where they scan over the food. 

Christen nods. “They’re, umm, really, umm, making the best of things. Loudly. In the middle of the night. Kind of all night, the past couple of days. Last night was...” The groan says it all.

“Oh, shit,” Tobin says, but the way she laughs – she can’t help it – probably undoes some of the sympathy that’s coming across. 

Christen covers her face with her hands, still groaning through the pain. “It’ll be a funny story at some point. But right now, not so much. I don’t cope well on less than eight hours a night. I almost fell asleep on the phone to my boss earlier.” 

“You should try having Megan Rapinoe as a roommate,” Tobin quips, the corner of her mouth lifting to a grin before she turns her back to fish out the tub of yogurt in her fridge, as well as grab a couple of bowls for them both. She places one in front of Christen and her own just beside it before taking a selection of the berries to run them under the tap. 

“To be honest, she seems incredible and I would put up with a lot for that experience.” 

Tobin stops what she’s doing suddenly and turns around. “Wait, you actually know P? You barely knew who _I_ was and I live in your building.” 

Christen gives a serene little shrug, the smugness on her face entirely intentional. It’s teasing in that way they’ve got in the habit of already, that way that reminds her of her teammates and friends. Tobin’s got her back against the sink, her arms folded as Christen looks her in the eye, a smile curling her lips, and says, “Yeah, but she’s, like, fighting-with-the-president famous. You’re just good-at-kicking-balls famous.” 

Tobin sends a single blueberry missile in Christen’s direction. “Okay. I see how it is.” 

“And I _did_ know who you were. Elena told me!” Christen argues, a hand in front of her face to defend from the threat of any further fruit-throwing. 

“But what exactly did Elena tell you?”

“Well, I can’t spill all her secrets, Tobin. We hardly know each other!” As Christen says it, she smiles as if to say the opposite, as if toying with the notion now, now that they do know each other in some strange, inexplicable way that stretches beyond the minutes they’ve spent together or the words they’ve spoken to each other. 

Tobin shakes her head, almost just to herself, as she resumes preparing their food. A scoop of yogurt here, a smattering of berries there. “You’ll tell me someday, then?”

“Maybe.”

“Here,” Tobin says, holding up the bowl – all perfectly arranged to impress, “you should eat. Build up your strength before another night of–”

“Okay! It’s not funny, Tobes.” Christen’s laughing but beneath it, Tobin catches the poorly disguised despair. There’s the roll of her eyes, and the deep breath before Christen admits: “I haven’t had a proper night’s sleep in days.”

“Just stay here, like in the spare room, if it’s that bad,” Tobin offers, casual about it. The offer spills out of her before she can think too hard on the implications. She’d already had a close call with the Portland girls earlier, for instance. The teasing would be unbearable if they ever caught wind of it, if they ever caught a glimpse of Christen. She’s pretty – dangerously so. And her type, though she doesn’t linger too long on that detail. And yet it feels like the right thing to do. “Mi casa es su casa.”

“I didn’t know you were a multi-linguist,” Christen retorts.

“Well, I guess Elena doesn’t know everything about me then, huh?” Tobin gives a cocky smile, her eyebrows dancing, teasing, and the look on Christen’s face is almost a blush. There’s something bashful about her reaction that makes Tobin’s breath catch in her throat.

When she recovers, she gestures her head toward the windows, where the sun is streaking into the apartment as if to lure them into its light. “Come on. Let’s go eat on the balcony. It’s a beautiful morning.”

*

They sit outside together in the glorious morning sunshine, warm sun beating down already. Christen ends up borrowing a pair of Tobin’s sunglasses, having neglected to bring any over with her, and enjoys her own mini fashion show with the selection provided, much to Tobin’s amusement. 

First, she puts on a pair of big, round ones that Tobin can’t remember buying – must’ve been at Pinoe’s urging, they’re so over-the-top. To prove it, Christen toys with them, lifting them from the bridge of her nose and jiggling them. Next, she tries on a flashy, electric blue pair with reflective lenses, and Tobin is giggling at just the sight of her own double-reflection (“You’re not taking these seriously enough!” Christen complains, pout and all). The third pair are the perfect opposite of their predecessor: a basic style, brown frames with black lenses, a slight early-noughties look to them. While Christen does her best to sell them – a hair flip, a playful, posing pout, her hand framing her face – they don’t quite suit. Eventually, she settles on a square style – orange frames, turquoise reflective lenses that are ever so slightly more subtle than the electric blue option. 

“Those suit you,” Tobin finds herself thinking aloud, the words mumbled as she glances across the table at the end of her meal. They’re both leaning back against the apartment windows, chairs facing out, though Tobin’s face is turned toward her friend.

“Thanks! Thanks for letting me borrow them. I’d have been scowling the whole morning.” Christen momentarily pulls them up to her forehead, pulling a face to prove her point. 

“Can’t have that,” Tobin remarks, so quiet, it could just be for herself. She stands to start clearing their bowls as Christen smiles up at her from behind the glasses. For a moment, her guest simply watches curiously, quiet as Tobin piles up the crockery before pulling the sliding door open again with her free hand.

As Tobin leads her back inside, Christen asks, “Can I keep these on now, cover up my dark circles?” 

“Your yawning still gives you away.” Tobin glances over her shoulder to appreciate how ridiculous her friend looks wearing the flashy pair she’s always been fond of indoors. “Do you want me to go bang on the door, tell ‘em to knock it off up there?”

“No.” Christen says softly, taking off the shades and putting them beside the rest on the countertop. “I, uh… I think they’re _trying_ , you know,” – she flashes her eyes wide – “so I don’t want to make them feel bad.”

“How do you know that?” Tobin asks, incredulous, before answering her own question at the same time as Christen: “Elena.”

“They don’t have to be loud, though.”

Christen puts her hands up in surrender. “Hey, it’s none of my business. Good for them, honestly. May we all be so lucky.” She laughs it off, and Tobin just about refrains from choking on her surprise. “I’m just, like, well… it’s better than arguing, I guess.”

“That’s very… nice of you.” 

“Thank you,” she says in a laugh. “But now I’m your problem because you can’t make me go back up there. I brought breakfast and, umm, well… that’s all I got, but I’m asking for your help.”

Tobin pulls open the dishwasher, slotting the two bowls and spoons into wherever they fit before peering up at Christen hovering above. “You know you can hang here. I’ve got a whole lot of nothing to do.” 

Christen just puts her hands together, as though in prayer, as Tobin laughs at her unashamed desperation. 

Tobin gets back to her feet. “You wanna play a video game for a bit?”

“You’ll have to show me how. Like you promised.” 

“I can show you,” Tobin replies easily, trying to be casual and reassuring about it, even as her eagerness forces its way up. She thinks it’s obvious. The smile is impossible to suppress. 

They move over to the sofa, where Tobin picks up the Playstation controller, handing it to Christen before heading over to the selection of games. “Do you know what you wanna play? I have a few options, umm…” 

“What about the soccer one?” 

Tobin raises an eyebrow. “You think you’re ready for that?”

“What, like it’s hard?” Christen teases back, raising her own eyebrow in return. 

Before long, Tobin’s got it all set up and they’re scrolling through the teams available on FIFA 20. She sits herself close enough to Christen that she can point to each of the controls, guiding her through the different features of the game. It doesn’t hurt that the proximity allows for their bare arms to brush, and the scent of Christen’s body lotion or shampoo pleasantly fills Tobin’s senses. It’s comforting in the same way as her smile, or the way ‘Tobes’ sounds when she says it fondly. 

“Who d’you want to play as?” 

“I don’t know… like, uh, Chelsea?” Christen suggests, hovering on the blues as Tobin pulls a face that says, unequivocally, _no_. This girl is cute, but not cute enough to get away with Chelsea. 

“You want me to help you, don’t you?” Tobin replies with a laugh – the polite alternative to her gut reaction, which would’ve definitely involved some coarse language. Unconsciously shifting closer, from over Christen’s shoulder, Tobin drags the joystick down to the next team.

“Okay, okay. Who should I be then, hotshot?” Christen’s shaking her head, scrolling through her options, and then she lands on ‘WOMEN’. “Oh my god. Are you on this game?” Her eyes light up. Tobin can’t help but notice how eager she looks as she tries to laugh off the idea. “Can I play as you?” 

“They just have the national teams for the women, no Thorns or anything. But, uh, yeah… I’m on there. Here.” Tobin takes back the controller, the sides of their legs now pressed together, and she chooses the USWNT option, accepting the first suggestion of an opponent alphabetically (Australia), then going through to the team selection. “Okay, so, here you just choose your lineup. You can’t just play as me the whole time, but you can choose to have me on the squad.”

Christen’s beaming at the idea. “I finally get to see you play!” 

While Christen’s gaze returns to the details on the screen, the graphic of the starting lineup appearing before them, Tobin’s still stuck on that thought. She presses her lips together, as if trying to contain the words flashing in her mind, and toys absently with her hair, but never takes her eyes off Christen. The thought of her there, lost in a crowd at a Thorns home game – or even travelling specially for a national team tournament, sends a fizzing little thrill through Tobin’s chest. In the end, she mumbles fondly, “Something like that.”

“Okay, so, uh… ooh, look, you’re in the default starting lineup already,” Christen notices, brightening even more. Tobin feels an elbow to the ribs as she blushes. Sounding almost – Tobin dares to think it – flirtatious, she remarks, “You _are_ a hotshot, huh.” 

Tobin flushes right down to her neck and feels every inch of it, tingling terribly beneath her skin. She moves a hand through her hair, hiding behind it as she flips it to sit on the other side, the sudden displacement stinging at her scalp. “Shut up. Do you know anything about positions?” 

“A little! I know things, okay? Like, umm, the goalkeeper. Gonna put her right here in front of the goal.” 

Bringing her legs up onto the sofa to get comfortable, Tobin scoffs: “Great start.” 

“Listen, I’ll be honest, it’s got Rapinoe and you and Alex Morgan up top. That’s all the ones I know, okay, so can we assume everyone is in their normal positions?” Christen twists around to where Tobin’s propped herself up on an elbow against the back of the sofa, watching behind her. There’s a long, searching look as though seeking approval, and it prompts Tobin to sit up to pay proper attention.

Tobin scans the lineup, before nodding. “Let me just–” She takes the controller, quickly pressing buttons with the confident ease of someone who’s spent a lot of time getting a feel for it, muttering to herself, “I don’t know why… there’s no Lavelle,” before swapping out Lloyd in midfield to put Long on, then she swaps out Dahlkemper for Sonnett. She switches to a different screen of options to choose roles, making Sauerbrunn captain before putting herself on right corners while Rapinoe holds down the left side. 

“Look who’s suddenly a manager,” Christen says, giggling a little as she watches her. The motion of her laughter has her curling into Tobin’s side in a way that’s distracting, softening the serious game face Tobin can’t seem to help wearing. As she goes to leave the window with all the role options, Christen adds, “But I want you to be captain.”

“But I’m not captain.”

“Okay, but… on my team you would be,” Christen replies quickly, looking straight at the screen even when Tobin turns her head to study Christen’s expression. It’s as if she knows Tobin’s thinking too hard about it, reading too much into it, when she adds: “And look, you’re super highly rated.” Christen sounds impressed, or proud, or perhaps just surprised when she says it.

“I’m not captain,” is all Tobin says, but there’s a fondness at the edges of her words as she selects it just as Christen insists. 

“Thank you,” Christen says sweetly as she receives the controller back, their fingers brushing. The contact feels like an electric shock: sharp, charged, jolting. 

Tobin tries to shake it off. “Are you ready for a game now?” 

“You gotta help me, okay?” 

“It’s beginner mode, Chris. You’ll be all good, I promise. Just hit the ‘X’ button when you want to pass it, the triangle for, like, a more play-making pass to move forward, and circle for a tackle. You can hit square for a tackle but that’s, like, a risky option so maybe don’t do that,” Tobin explains carefully, Christen nodding along obediently. Except the thing is, as soon as Australia head out on a break, zipping up the midfield where Ertz is running in the wrong direction while Christen thinks she’s still controlling Horan, she panics. She sees Sauerbrunn, Tobin’s preferred captain, as the last man standing between Kerr and Naeher and all she can think is to hit square. It sends in a crunching slide tackle that earns Becky a yellow, but Christen’s almost giddy with it. 

“That was fun!” she says, and Tobin’s face sinks into her hands, leaving her watching through her fingers as Christen abandons her clean, light tackles with the circle button for this fun alternative. 

“Fuck, Chris. You’re gonna do someone’s ACL out there!” Tobin calls out, watching Sonnett smash right into Raso well after the ball’s away. She can’t help but laugh at the approach, the red coming out just as Christen’s calling the ref names from the couch. “Who knew you’d be so aggressive! You’ve gone full O’Hara and it’s been, like, five minutes.” 

The reckless play only continues – long enough that she’s managed to earn another three yellows by half-time, while still goalless at the break. When play starts again, Christen’s gritting her teeth with focus, on the edge of her seat, eyes fixed on the TV. Tobin watches it play out, smiling to herself, until another messy tackle has her hiding her face behind Christen’s back, forehead against Christen’s shoulder, unable to hold back from a little heckling: “You’re gonna be playing 5-v-11 soon, Chris.” 

“I just need to get a goal, but – ah! – it’s just not, umm – ooooh! – going the way – no! Yes Dunn! – I was hoping. Oh, god, that girl Kerr keeps taking the ball back.” 

Tobin smothers a laugh before gently pointing out, “It’s Sam Kerr. That’s what she’s meant to do. She’s the opposition.”

“Whose side are you on?” Christen protests, voice full of faux outrage. “You should be helping me!”

“Can I show you–” 

Christen thrusts the controller back into Tobin’s hands, allowing her to immediately set up a classic two-hander between Rapinoe and Morgan, before diverting the ball to her own avatar for a trick show. She’s flicking at the right joystick to add some flair to proceedings as Christen watches, eyebrows creeping up as she sees the way Tobin fakes out defenders, passes back to herself, juggles the ball a little, and then–

“GOAL!” Christen explodes in celebration, arms in the air. Her eyes blow wide as she turns to look at Tobin, beaming, even while Tobin’s reaction stays a little more muted, leaning back against the back of the sofa, soaking up the glory. She’s biting on her lower lip, tucking away the smile that blooms first in her chest. 

Tobin quickly follows her moment of triumph up by passing to Naeher, then dribbling the ball up the pitch, ignoring the entire squad, and letting the goalkeeper put the next goal away. Christen’s gripped, her hand absently on Tobin’s leg, the contact electric and distracting, while Tobin refuses to take her eyes off the screen. 

As the ball hits the back of the net, Christen leans her weight toward Tobin, laughing at the unabashed ego on display. “Well, you’re just showing off now.” 

“Here, you have it back,” Tobin says, conceding to Christen’s point with a twitch of her eyebrows. It’s a relief to have Christen’s hands both gripping the controller again, all the heat in Tobin’s body centering on the spot where Christen’s palm had been.

“I’m gonna undo all of your good work. Ooh!” Christen loses the ball to Ellie Carpenter before Crystal Dunn swoops in to save the day again. “No, you don’t,” Christen’s muttering under her breath as it happens, somehow cuter than ever in this light, even as she screws her face up in concentration, even though she’s been yawning all morning and there are shadows beneath her eyes. She’s grimacing as she focuses, eyes squinting at the screen as Rapinoe lofts it across to Tobin Heath running into the box from the right wing. The game’s Tobin Heath crashes through and the ball goes in, much to Christen’s delight. 

Tobin leans across to hit one of the buttons, prompting her own avatar to perform a rather elaborate goal celebration that involves a dancing handstand, before the game’s rendering of Alex Morgan rushes over and gives her a friendly shove. 

It takes Tobin and Christen both by surprise – the eerie simulacra of this almost, not-quite Tobin acting so over-the-top, so wild, so flamboyant. It’s a more dramatic goal celebration than anything Tobin’s seen on the pitch in real life, even from her teammates, and Christen’s got her arms wrapped around herself, she’s laughing so hard. Trying to catch her breath, she manages to get out, “She looks” – a few more bursts of laughter interrupt her – “so much like you!”

Tobin’s sinking down into the cushions, laughing herself as the replay of the celebration continues to play. “I’ll try not to take offense.” 

“I’m sorry,” Christen carries on, still not totally recovered, but she reaches a consolatory hand over to where Tobin’s arm is stretched over the sofa cushions. “It’s just a better likeness than I expected.” 

“Some of them are good and some of them are just… blonde,” Tobin replies as a questionable-looking Allie Long appears on the screen. Glancing back at Christen, she notices that a little of her real smile is back now, even as her eyes look heavy still. “Well done on your goal, Chris.” 

“Well, it was technically your goal.” 

“Team effort?” Tobin offers, and she puts her hand up for a high five. Christen smiles softly at it at first, not moving to accept the gesture but instead just studying the hand that hovers in midair. It feels long enough for a palm reading before she eventually claps her hand to Tobin’s, the sound echoing around the room. 

*

Christen lingers in Tobin’s apartment well past lunchtime, which suits them both perfectly because there are enough leftovers from the night before to feed two and then some. It’s strange, really, how quickly breakfast becomes lunch, and then all of a sudden, it’s two in the afternoon and time for Tobin to start her workout. It’s as she gets up to change into her exercise gear, without a thought to what it might mean for the guest who doesn’t feel like a guest at all, that Christen offers to head home, a reluctance in her voice that Tobin hopes she’s not imagining. “I better do a little work, check my emails at least…” 

“You still meant to be working?” Tobin stops in her doorway, resting her temple against the frame as she looks over at Christen who sits up a little straighter on the couch. 

“Kinda. My hours are pretty loose, but I’m kind of in charge of morale. I’ve been sending everyone, umm, guidance, ideas for creative projects to do at home, quizzes, whatever feels most suited to each person. I’m not really meant to be working today, but I like checking in with my emails.” She shrugs, a yawn taking hold of her for a moment before she can continue, talking through the end of it: “You don’t want to find out someone needed, umm, like, a little support and you weren’t there when they needed it, you know?”

Tobin’s glad for the wooden door frame holding her up at that moment, the sweetness of her friend a little dizzying. Christen just sits, oblivious, perched upright as if ready to leave the moment she is asked, absently brushing a hand through her hair to tuck it behind her ear, looking like she’s been there as long as the apartment itself. She fits better than the furniture that came with it, better than Tobin, whose disorganized chaos never seems to quite settle in the space. But Christen does. She feels calming, still, _right_. It’s that feeling, and her remarkable kindness and compassion that seems only second nature, that prompts Tobin to say, “Stay.”

“What?” 

“Enjoy the quiet here, do your thing, make yourself at home. But stay and hang,” Tobin urges her, because suddenly the thought of Christen leaving stings too sharply. “I seriously won’t be long. Just have to put in some time on the bike, then we can, like, I don’t know, play some more FIFA. Or get some dinner. Whatever you want.”

“You sure?” Christen’s eyebrows furrow, but she’s smiling too. “You’re not sick of me yet?” 

“No,” Tobin replies easily, her lips folding slowly around the word. 

Tobin swears she sees a spark of joy in Christen’s eyes, which soften and crinkle at the corners as though she’s fighting back a smile. But her tone is matter-of-fact when she replies, “Okay, I’ll, umm, work through my emails for a bit while you do that, okay?” 

Tobin nods her agreement, though she does a much worse job of hiding her delight, an irrepressible grin breaking out before she disappears. The workout isn’t too long – a short, sharp 45 – but it’s intense. It has beads of sweat running down her face, her back, her legs, and, _fuck_ , does she miss training the old-fashioned way. The feeling of sweating it out with her friends, the camaraderie of suffering together. The feeling of making the most of wide open spaces, vast green fields marked out in crisp white lines for her to dance along with a ball at her feet. The feeling of that freshly-inflated ball bouncing over every inch of her body, back-and-forth with a teammate. The feeling of cleats sinking into the soft grass, grounding her within the madness of the national team dream. The feeling of familiar voices calling to her: cheering or chastising, depending on the play. 

Still, she powers through. She focuses on the endgame. She envisions the pitch, the fans, the team all around her. She remembers winning. She _imagines_ winning. 

And then it’s over. 

She throws a towel over her face for a moment, then straightens up at the memory of just who is waiting for her in the other room. It’s funny how quickly she’s already got used to this brand new person. Brand new and yet so familiar. 

When she walks back into the lounge, she finds Christen lying across one side of the corner sofa, curled around herself like a cat, her head tucked down against her chest and her arms stretched out, one on top of the other. Her hair halos around her, spilling freely across the sofa cushions in even, steady waves that peter out at the ends. Most remarkable, perhaps, is the way the light hits her; the sunlight streaming in through the nearest window while her head stays just inside the shade. It’s as though the sun itself refuses to wake her. 

Looking at Christen lying there, a gentle sighing snore sounding in the silence, the fondness bursting in Tobin’s chest compels her to do something. There’s a nervous, eager energy – perhaps it’s endorphins and adrenaline from the Peloton mixing together dangerously – that bubbles over in search of an outlet. She considers carrying Christen to the guest bedroom but it’s little more than a passing thought before she brushes it off as too much; even the notion of it sends her imagination into overdrive – and there’s the worry about how Christen would feel waking up in an unfamiliar room with no explanation. No. 

Instead, she fetches the comforter from the spare room and drapes it across where Christen lies on the sofa. It’s a comfortable sofa; Tobin’s slept on it herself before on nights she’s been too lazy to move after gaming or reading or watching movies. That eases her mind a little. Besides, she looks cozy there, her face relaxed in the way that reflects only the deepest of sleeps. 

While Christen catches up on some rest, Tobin decides to take the opportunity to shower quickly, freshening up before she settles beside her friend with the copy of _Untamed_ that Abby had sent in the mail while she was away. Her feet propped on the edge of the coffee table, she slides on her glasses and sinks into the cushions with the hardback resting in her lap. Allowing herself only a few sly glances in Christen’s direction, the book flickers by, page by page, and she’s well into the love story – the words dancing their way into her imagination, alive and unstoppable and spilling into the room – when she reads, _“I am not sad to leave Abby. I am excited to leave her so I can think about her. I am excited to leave because I realize I have never in my life felt this alive, and now I just want to go out into the world and walk around feeling this alive. I just want to start being this new person I have just suddenly, somehow become.”_

And it’s funny how it goes. That those words, though not the last of a chapter or a page, end up being the last she reads before the shuffling of the comforter catches her attention. She sees Christen’s head lift from against the seat of the sofa, seeming to search her out.

“Hey,” Tobin says, soft as if she’s waking a child, the corner of her mouth quirking up. 

“Hey. You wear glasses,” Christen murmurs quietly like she’s thinking aloud, blinking herself awake as she stretches out her limbs. She rubs her face as she pulls herself more upright, twisting against the sofa cushions as she looks from Tobin’s newly-discovered frames to the view out the window. Half-yawning, she asks, “What time is it?”

“It’s not too late. Like, four.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t know what happened.” Christen rubs at her bleary eyes, her forefinger collecting the sleep dust that’s gathered at the corners. Her hair’s fluffed up on one side and there are marks from where her face had been pressed across the cushions indented in her cheek, and Tobin finds herself distantly wondering if this is how she looks when she wakes up in the morning. There’s something softer about Christen like this, like the sharp edges of a picture smoothed and rounded.

“It’s all good. You looked wiped out, and… it’s a cozy couch, right?” 

Christen moans in agreement. “Cozy, and quiet, and warm. It was a dangerous combination.”

“Do you feel better for it?”

“Honestly, it’s been, umm” – she glances down at her watch – “seven whole hours of not listening to my neighbors. I feel refreshed.” Christen laughs it off.

“You can escape here... anytime,” Tobin offers, pausing in the middle to stop herself from adding _with me_.

“Thanks.” Christen doesn’t seem to take much notice of it, the offer now firming up into something more serious and explicit. Cheerfully, she lets her thoughts drift back to the disruption that inevitably awaits upstairs: “At one point, the neighbors were going at it during my Zoom with my colleagues.” Tobin winces and Christen covers her face with her hands. “I’m there trying to explain all of the mental health services available and give them a schedule for collective meditations, and in the background there’s just moaning and other, worse noises that we’re all pretending we can’t hear.”

“You can move into my spare room if you like, get some respite from it.” It’s not the first time Tobin’s suggested it, but it’s the most seriously that it’s been posed to Christen, whose lips are tightly pressed together, saying nothing. “I’m not just saying that. You can sleep there. If day one of this quarantine buddy thing is anything to go by, you’re gonna be here a bunch anyway, and the only time you’re not is when you’re working, which… is easier at mine, by the sounds of it.” She feels herself starting to ramble, the words getting away from her in a way she’s not quite used to. But maybe it was weird to offer, she worries now, twisting the hem of her t-shirt nervously in her hands as she feels herself start to blush. “You can always go back up there if it’s worse. I do whistle a lot.” 

As Christen continues to hold back her reply, a curiosity in her eyes that suggests she’s at least thinking about it, Tobin reasons, “Besides, I’m used to sharing. I don’t think I’ve had a minute to myself in the last 15 years. I’m starting to get antsy on my own here.” 

“I’ve heard you whistle, Tobin,” Christen says with a laugh, and there’s something almost bashful about the way she says it that sets Tobin’s cheeks on fire. “You’re serious?” Tobin nods. “Are you… sure?” 

Tobin nods again, then smiles. It’s bright and broad, and leaves no room for doubt. 

“Okay, maybe for a little bit. But you promise you’ll tell me when you get sick of me?” 

It’s only when she says those words that it hits Tobin that this could be a bad idea. Not because she will, but because of the certainty sitting on her chest that she couldn’t. She can’t imagine possibly getting sick of Christen.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At the end of this chapter, I leave you with a note that I urge you all to read. Thank you.

On Christen’s first morning in the apartment, Tobin’s sitting out on the balcony with a coffee by the time she sees her new roommate stir. Her eyes are caught up in sprawling cloud patterns, creating shapes and meanings from bubbles of grey-white floating overhead like stretched cotton wool. There is blue creeping through from behind, a hint of color through the foggy, blank haze. She remembers learning about it as a kid, about why the sky is usually blue, the light from the sun scattering colour in all directions but blue travelling with the smallest waves, lingering in the sky: bright and hopeful against the vast darkness of space behind it. She thinks of John 1:15. She thinks, _And the light shineth in darkness; and the darkness comprehended it not._

Her thoughts are interrupted when she hears movement from behind her. She twists around to glance through the windows and catches sight of wild, fluffy curls and the faint wave of a hand. Timidly, Christen wanders over to the glass door between them, tightening the knot of her robe as she approaches. There’s not a hint of makeup on her face now, and while Tobin’s never noticed her wearing much, there’s a fresh intimacy to the sight. There’s the way it softens Christen’s features, the lack of polish only making her natural beauty more striking, and there’s the way it gives away a little of Christen’s comfort, her ease in being here, with Tobin, sharing this private, quiet morning. When she steps outside, Tobin takes in everything else brand new that the sleepover affords her, Christen’s sleep shorts revealing long, toned legs that bear a golden sheen, the robe offering little cover even as she pulls it tightly around herself to protect from the morning chill. 

“Morning,” Tobin greets her warmly, watching as Christen throws a handful of hair into a messy side-parting, guiding it out of her face to allow her smile to go unimpeded. 

_The light shineth_ , Tobin thinks again. 

For all that the world feels darker than any time she can remember, there is light shining down on her here. There is color still bursting out of her. There is reason to hope. 

As Christen sinks into the chair that sits empty on the other side of the little orange table, Tobin looks over at her, studying her expression for the signs of tiredness that had seemed so obvious yesterday. She seems a little sleepy, in that freshly-woken way, her hair disheveled and her eyelids heavy, but there’s a healthy color in her face and a lightness about her now. Still, Tobin asks, “You feel better after a good night’s sleep?”

“I feel like I slept forever.” Christen sighs like she’s breathing out a wave of relief. “That was maybe the best night’s sleep I’ve ever had.”

Tobin buries her smile against the rim of her mug, eyes drifting back to the city just as it’s starting to wake before them. It’s set in a warm glow now, the clouds parting to reveal the sun of a new day. Beside her, Christen, too, seems content to gaze out at the view in silence, stretching out her legs before her and crossing them at her ankles. 

That’s how they begin their cohabitation. 

That’s how they begin each day, developing a shared new routine.

Every morning, still sleep-wrecked and stretching away the night, shuffling around in similar pairs of slides, they sink into the matching metal-framed garden chairs and look out on the city stretched out before them while it’s still only beginning to stir. Their conversation starts slow and drowsy, as if that bright, yawning sun has dried up their words and all that’s left are scattered puddles of thought. While the timing creeps earlier and earlier, as Tobin realizes she can eke more out of it before work starts, the days grow longer in tune with her, as if making a little more time for _this_ , for them. 

Instead of talking right away, there is breakfast: sometimes just toast or cereal, but other mornings one of them will get up ahead of the other to scramble eggs, or pile bowls of oatmeal with fruit and flaked almonds. And there is coffee, much-improved in Tobin’s estimations thanks to the addition of Christen’s flashy coffee machine, now positioned perfectly in the gap next to the toaster. They sit with their refreshments on the table between them, Tobin always opting for the chipped mug, soaking up the morning side by side. 

The hours after breakfast are usually spent seeing to their various work tasks: conference calls and Zooms, alternated where possible for the sake of a stable wifi connection. There are emails, too, though Tobin’s never been much good at checking them. She follows the updates from the lawyers, the continually evolving training plan from Vlatko, text threads she lurks in but never replies to – mostly taken up with making fun of Rose or Lindsey, or heckling Pinoe for her latest Instagram live, or memes from Sonnett. Sometimes she’ll show the highlights to Christen, if anything elicits as much as a quiet snort to herself. 

Whenever Tobin has to talk on the phone, which proves more frequent than she would like, Christen quietly makes herself scarce. She goes into her bedroom, or disappears back to her apartment. She had brought a certain number of essentials down with her in a bag for the first night she’d stayed, but finds excuses to go back up most days for some reason or other. Tobin doesn’t resist because, mostly, she doesn’t want to have to explain the situation to her friends. But she comes to hate those minutes they spend separated, confined by the boundaries of their own apartments, as if the past few weeks haven’t happened. She gets distracted on the calls, wondering what Christen is doing upstairs, wondering when she’ll decide to go back for good, wondering if she’ll discover that the neighbors have suddenly fallen silent. 

And each time, when Tobin hangs up with Mark or Vlatko or Pinoe or Lindsey, she’s quick to send texts to Christen hinting as much, often laughing or complaining about the calls. She doesn’t ever directly ask her to come back, disguising the true purpose of every message, but she finds it hard to hide her relief, often bounding to the door as soon as she hears the knock, when her quarantine buddy returns – often with more clothes for her stay, or face masks for them to try, or toilet paper from her seemingly limitless supplies. And then there are the house plants.

In only a short space of time, Christen moves in like a new season, her warmth settling over the place like the first days of summer. As life begins to bud outdoors – flowers bursting through cracks in the sidewalk, the luscious green trees of the city shading much of Tobin’s run route, birds chirping louder than ever in lieu of the usual hum of busy traffic – Tobin watches her home come into bloom too. 

It starts with a modest little cheese plant. That first monstera had come from one of her expeditions back to her apartment. It was after one of Tobin’s work calls – a particularly intense discussion with Pinoe, Becky, Kelley, Carli, Alex, Sam and their lawyers regarding the pay dispute with their federation – that Christen had come back into the apartment with her precious plant clutched in both hands. Little did Tobin know at the time, it would be only the beginning. 

Soon there’s a family of cacti, sharp spikes made less menacing by their ceramic pots painted in cheerful pinks and yellows, and the peace lily too – meant to bring, in Christen’s words, “peace, hope and tranquility”. Or in Tobin’s words: “good vibes”.

Over a week into their casual cohabitation, Christen’s lined the balcony with them, brightened Tobin’s rarely-used table with them, decorated the windowsill with them. There are vibrant, little bursts of life scattered all around the apartment and Tobin finds she doesn’t mind at all, even if she complains aloud that she’s never going to have time to water them all once she’s back on her normal schedule of long periods away from home, each week a new city. 

Christen brushes her off with an easy shrug. “I’ll keep them upstairs when I go back. Or, if you lend me a key, I can come in and water them for you.” She looks away when she says it, continuing to tend to her little family of plants out on the balcony as Tobin watches from the doorway. 

Her weight leaning on the doorframe, Tobin smiles to herself, fond of the notion that Christen might still find reasons to come by even if she’s not staying with her. It’s a strange thing to want, perhaps, but she’s already getting used to this. Whatever _this_ is. It’s certainly something; Tobin knows by the way that she’s feeling more rooted to her apartment than ever, barely leaving the confines of it – not even to visit the little art space she rents a few streets over, not even in search of creative escape. She longs for home, a feeling and not a place, and it’s here that that longing is sated. She’s been here for years now, never quite calling it home, and yet now it is. Now, that name for it now feels so unequivocally fitting. It’s the refreshing new energy that fills the air, making sense of how different it all is now; amidst all the forced changes in her life buds this singular happy new thing that lends Tobin a much-needed silver lining. 

While it’s quiet on those mornings that they spend sitting outside together, Christen looks adoringly at her family of plants, growing and changing with each new day. Tobin, meanwhile, uses the distraction to notice the changes in Christen: little details, from the confidence with which she now wears Tobin’s favorite sunglasses to the fitted yoga pants that have been swapped out for loose sweats. She also seems to have abandoned ponytails and straighteners completely, instead throwing her curls over to one side in the way that Tobin is most fond of. Sometimes she’ll tidy herself up for Zoom calls later in the day, but this Christen, the one who sits in the private quiet of a morning with her, feels like the truest and loveliest version. 

*

After their morning meetings are done, Tobin’s newest tradition comes in the form of a homemade lunch, inspired by the Jersey girl in her. It feels like a much-deserved reward after the least enjoyable parts of her job are dealt with: admin, organizing and lawsuit prep. 

Tobin gets into the habit of assembling bagels for the two of them – her attempt at making up for her lack of culinary expertise, with many variations of fillings to suit the mood of the day and the ingredients left in the cupboards. It’s also a nice excuse to text with her sisters, who are only too keen to forward their favorite filling ideas, whether from their childhoods, from the internet or from their own quarantine experiments. They keep her updated with photos of their own attempts, the cutest of which are the fast-growing collection of snaps of their kids trying to get the stacked bagels to fit into their tiny mouths.

They fall into a pattern of Tobin throwing together lunch as Christen moves her work to the kitchen around midday, sitting up at the breakfast bar with her laptop. As soon as she’s finished with her emails, or venting about the low points of her work day so far, she sets about putting together their shopping list – from the essentials to favorites of Tobin’s that she’s already picked up on, throwing out ideas while Tobin checks on the inventory of what they still have, dancing about the kitchen from fridge to cupboard and back again. 

The domesticity bleeds from lunch into their shared break afterward, the two of them stretching out across the sofa and holding their stomachs. Some days they play video games for a while, though Christen’s brief foray into that particular mode of entertainment does not seem to leave her desperate for more. Nevertheless, she indulges Tobin every now and then. On other days, they talk and talk and talk. There seem to be an endless number of subjects to explore, from Tobin’s artistic endeavors or the equal pay lawsuit to Christen’s family or the secret lives of their neighbors. What Tobin realizes quickly, and with a pang of something she can’t quite pinpoint, is how effortless the conversation is. She’s never usually a big talker; she thinks and listens, and shares only enough of herself to put other people at ease. With Christen, Tobin’s thoughts flow out easily, even half-baked ones, even the seeds of ideas that normally she’d be too self-conscious to share. There are silences, too, but comfortable ones, like a space left open for those most private and quiet of sentences: opportunities to speak, and opportunities to contemplate what’s already been said. It makes a myth of time, their shared break flying by every day. It leaves her with the perfect incentive to get through the afternoon.

Once her lunch has settled in her stomach and their conversation comes to a natural pause, Tobin sets about her workout: on the bike, with the weights, out for a run, shooting drills, ball work. It depends on the plan, the intensity level varying according to her trainer. 

It’s during Christen’s afternoon off at the end of their first week together that Tobin sets herself up for a high-intensity workout in the lounge, her weights, her Swiss ball, her mat and her raised aerobic step all arranged around her. It’s still a work in progress trying to get the most out of her solo training time, but nevertheless she decides to try and embrace the circumstances. If nothing else, she’ll have someone to show off for – which has never done her any harm before. 

She draws up the routine: a list of activities, with timings of how long she’s meant to do each one. Each is its own unique form of torture, familiar to her now after years of this life. This odd and unrelatable life, the only one she knows. 

Christen checks that she’s not going to be getting in Tobin’s way before curling up on the sofa with a book in her hand. Tobin already suspects it might be a welcome distraction as she starts her warm-up, laughing off a cheer of “Go USA!” from Christen.

Tobin rallies herself through a series of different drills: lunging with weights, Russian twists, a long, agonizing wall sit, tricep dips, step-ups, dreaded burpees. She can soon feel the beads of sweat dripping down her back, even with the balcony door open to allow the cool breeze inside.

As Tobin lifts the kettlebell up to begin a set of squats, she glances over to where Christen’s cozied up, a book in her hands. She’s facing towards Tobin but most of her face is concealed by the cover of _Meta Human_. Tobin squats down and rises, a glance: Christen’s rings glittering in the daylight streaking through the blinds. Squats and rises, squats and rises. Another glance: Christen’s legs, bended cross-legged so tightly, her yoga experience is plain to see. Squats and rises, squats and – Tobin focuses, focuses, focuses – rises. Another squat, not many to go now, and she glances once again. It feels almost a reward for another rep done, one more glimpse of her pretty friend. Pretty, that’s all she’ll allow herself to think. 

When Tobin looks up, she’s jolted by the sight of Christen’s eyes above the line of the book. Glinting green, perfectly focused, Tobin realizes with a shock, on _her_. It’s barely a second, and then Christen looks away sharply, her gaze snapping back to the book at close range. 

It’s a strange moment that lingers at the front of Tobin’s mind as she dips down again, the weight dangling in her hands between the wide squat of her knees. The strangest thing is that it feels as if she’s being watched suddenly; it makes her push herself harder, it makes her want to show off a little more. She rises again, and Christen’s gaze is again buried in the book. She squats down and feels the burning of a spotlight against her skin, which is already a dark pink from the exertion but reddening still. She stands to see Christen’s brow furrowed, as if deep in thought, her focus intently on that damn book. Tobin tries not to pay attention to how slow Christen seems to be reading, the rustle of the pages seeming to take forever each time. _How long can it take to read a single page?_

Tobin squats down again, stands up again. Over and over. And then eventually she glances and catches Christen once more. Their eyes meet and this time Christen accepts it, lowering her book to her lap and smiling at Tobin warmly, the odd tension in the room dissipating instantly at that smile – though it has Tobin feeling a little light-headed again. 

“Are you enjoying this?” Tobin remarks through gritted teeth as she continues.

“You’re making me feel lazy,” Christen replies, laughter skittering across the words as she unfolds her legs to sit up properly on the couch. “I’m impressed, though. You could be a professional athlete, you know.”

Tobin scoffs out a laugh through the next repetition. Her teeth really gritted now, the burning of her quads intensifying, Tobin then asks, “Can you see the timer? Am I done?”

Christen stretches over the couch to look at the stopwatch on the coffee table. “You’re like 15 seconds over. Do you want me to–” She gestures to it as Tobin squats one last time to place the kettlebell on the floor.

“You don’t mind timing me?” Tobin asks as she reaches for a sip from her water bottle. 

“No, of course not.” Christen’s eyebrows are raised, a devilish look in her eye. “I can be your stand-in personal trainer, if you like.”

“As long as you promise not to smile too much.” Tobin says it flippantly, but when she hears the words back, she thinks it’s probably best not to risk getting light-headed with weights clutched in her hands. At best, it’s thoroughly distracting; at worst, it’s outright hazardous.

After Christen agrees, she abandons the book in favor of the stopwatch and picks up the printed sheet with Tobin’s training plan on it. Within moments, she’s fully in character: stern expression, thumb hovering over the stop/start button of the timer, lingering beside Tobin with a mouth full of rallying comments: _you can do it, halfway there, just picture all those defenders, 10 more seconds and you win another World Cup, keep pushing, visualize your goal, you’re doing great_. Tobin tries not to laugh at some of her cheers, tries not to point out the ones that don’t make sense, but it at least takes her mind off the fierce burning of her muscles as she pushes through repetition after repetition.

When it’s done, at long last, Tobin finishes with a balancing exercise on the Swiss ball. It’s not strictly on the to-do list for the day, but she knows she’s good at it and she knows it looks a little more impressive than some, her knees digging into the blue rubber as she holds her weight there before slowly shifting so that she’s standing on it. She has to engage her core to stay balanced, teetering on the brink of disaster as she holds herself still as long as she can. Christen just looks up at her, seemingly silenced by her nerves, mouth ever-so-slightly agape and lines folding at her forehead. 

As Tobin comes down a few moments later, attempting to preserve her dignity with a controlled landing and failing, she stumbles just a little and falls into Christen’s waiting arms. Tobin laughs as they crash against each other, her hands searching for purchase anywhere and settling on Christen’s waist at first: a sharp, instant electric shock. There is suddenly so much contact: their chests brushing against each other, their legs entwined, Tobin’s tight grip at her sides. She’s quick to course-correct, moving her touch to Christen’s forearms to help her straighten up before she steps back. 

“As your personal trainer, I don’t want an injury on my hands,” Christen says, the warmth in her voice betraying her, as Tobin steps away. Relieved by the lightness of Christen’s teasing, Tobin’s shaking her head and smirking as she continues: “I’m serious! The future of our U.S. women’s national team was briefly in my hands then and I don’t want that kind of pressure.”

“Are you taking your offer back?” Tobin asks, pulling out her ponytail to draw it back up again in a tighter hold. This time, she leaves it hanging in a bun.

Christen pretends to think about it. “Not if you, umm, follow my rules.” 

Tobin’s biting down a grin, her brow furrowing. “Okay, and what are your rules?” 

“You join me for yoga too.” Christen’s smile is forced and pleading. 

“Chris, uh…” Tobin scratches the back of her head, looking away. “I’m not so, like, zen.”

“That’s okay. You’ve done it before, right?” Christen waits for the nod that Tobin reluctantly gives up. “It’d really make me feel better about taking up your space if I do it here.”

“Is that what you’ve been doing when you go back to yours?” Tobin suddenly realizes.

“Umm, sometimes,” Christen admits, a little sheepish. 

When Tobin replies, “Okay, I’ll try yoga with you,” rolling her eyes and smiling through surrender, she tells herself it isn’t because she doesn’t want Christen to have any excuses to leave. She tells herself it’s not about making the most of every opportunity to spend time together. She tells herself she’s just showing her gratitude. She tells herself these things, but knows even as the thoughts whir in her mind that it’s all bullshit. 

She knows the real reason why, and it’s even more indisputable as they pose together on parallel mats, Christen’s calming voice the only sound as she contorts her body one stretch at a time. It’s miraculous, that voice, casting a zen over Tobin’s mind that washes out everything else. It calms her even while the perfect curves Christen creates with her body as she demonstrates each pose send her thoughts into overdrive, her roommate’s finer assets accentuated by the cut of those yoga pants. It’s impossible not to notice, impossible not to hold her breath in her throat just a moment, and then she hears Christen again: “Breathe in – and out.”

*

Their lives fall into a routine together, as easy as rediscovering the patterns of a past life, the details working themselves out as they go. There are the breakfasts and lunches, workouts and meditations, casual hangs to while away afternoons, and evenings spent venting and laughing and swapping stories over a bottle of wine out on the balcony. It all becomes a part of Tobin’s new reality. There is work, and trying to make the best of less-than-ideal circumstances, and there is Christen for almost every other minute of the day. 

She is the perfect company for Tobin. Her presence is calming, though never dull. She laughs at Tobin’s jokes and listens attentively to the odd anecdotes she shares, but it never feels overly curious; she doesn’t pry. And then there’s the undeniable fact that she’s pretty. Tobin had casually considered her hot after their passing encounters, but now she settles on pretty. Because beautiful feels like a dangerous word, and so do all of the others that come to mind. 

What’s certainly true is that she’s easy on the eyes and Tobin’s noticed. At first, it’s noticed as merely a matter of fact, but the more time they spend together, it becomes noticeable to the point of distraction. But that’s not a path to go down. Certainly not while Christen is the only possible choice for company amid a terrifying, endless quarantine. 

Tobin tries to notice it less. 

But then there’s a smile. It starts with the eyes – long, dark eyelashes batted against the hoods of her eyes, faint lines curving at the corners – and then it spreads to her lips, revealing perfectly white teeth that may be the only unsymmetrical thing about her. A little crooked, often restrained, her smile never broadens the way Tobin’s does; there’s something a little more unreadable about it, as if the warmth and openness that bleeds out of every other part of her has to be accounted for somehow. And yet she smiles her coy smile often. Always with her eyes first. It’s enough to leave Tobin aching with curiosity, wondering hopefully if it’s a secret she can unfurl in time.

_Yeah. That’s a problem._

Christen’s wearing that dangerous smile as she declares that she’s going to be in charge of dinner from now on, come night number nine together. They’ve survived so far on takeout or lazy, unplanned meals that get thrown together at the last minute, but what Christen settles on now is _Homemade Dinner_ , with capital letters. It’s food that requires a recipe, and time, and ingredients she’s thought about more than five minutes beforehand. It turns out, in fact, that she’d added a few things to their shopping list on her outing earlier that day: all the essentials for her favorite mac and cheese. 

“My dad used to make this for us if we were really good when we were kids,” Christen explains as she fills a pan with water, navigating the kitchen with so much more self-assurance than she had that first night she was here. Now she moves around the space with barely a glance toward Tobin, who hovers there, waiting for a job to be given. 

“I can’t imagine you being bad,” Tobin replies, too distracted to think twice about the words that slip out of her mouth. 

Christen turns to her with a smirk at her lips, eyebrows raised as she peels back the plastic on the pack of bacon in her hands without looking down. “What, you think I’m a goody-goody?” 

Tobin covers her face with her hands, slumping with her elbows against the countertop. “No,” she says at first, her lips pressing together at the end of the syllable as if holding in the rest of a thought. Quieter, her gaze drifting to the rashers of bacon that Christen’s started cutting up into tiny pieces, Tobin adds, “I just… I think you might be the nicest person I’ve ever met.” 

She glances up in time to see Christen’s eyebrows drift slowly back down into their normal place, the faux indignation ebbing away like marks in the sand disappearing with the tide. Soon, Christen is a blank slate again, unreadable and silent. She breaks their eye contact to study the raw bacon pieces scattered across the chopping board in front of her. It’s as though she doesn’t quite know what to make of Tobin, or the blunt honesty that’s filled the air with a strange new tension. 

It’s a long moment that falls heavy between them, silence only broken by the furious sizzle of the meat meeting oil and heat in the pan when Christen turns away, before she recovers a faint smile, a bashful, “You mean that?” as she looks over her shoulder and then, rallying an even tone: “Well, you’ll let me hold onto my crown, then, and make you the best mac and cheese of your life?”

Christen doesn’t wait for a response before stepping away from the crisping bacon and towards the glowing light of a still-packed fridge, her back turned as Tobin straightens up. She’s rifling intently for a long time, arms stretching deep into the top shelf before she bends to reach lower. 

“Okay, let me help. What do you need from me?” Tobin offers, hands held out in front of her as if waiting to have responsibilities thrust upon her. 

Christen spins away from the fridge carrying a truly absurd number of different cheeses – Tobin can see cheddar, gouda, blue cheese, parmesan – and promptly dropping them all on the counter beside her onion, mushrooms, butter, flour, milk, garlic and breadcrumbs. “You,” she starts, peeling the onion as she says it, “are only allowed to be my taste-tester. That is all. You said how much you missed not having to cook for yourself, so…” Christen shakes her head as Tobin’s mouth drops open to protest. Instead of letting Tobin argue, she cheerily turns her attention to the onion, chopping it as she sings, “ _Be our guest, be our guest, put our service to the test_.” She glances up to see Tobin laughing, before gesticulating with the knife in her hand to reiterate. “ _Tie your napkin around your neck, cherie, and we provide the rest_.” 

“You’re such a dork.” Tobin laughs before trying to reach around Christen, brushing against her back, to get to the grater. Christen snatches it away just as she reaches it. “Not even a little grating? Come on.” Their faces are suddenly close. Really close. Perhaps the closest they’ve ever been.

Christen holds her gaze there, not shifting away at all. The corners of her lips pull up to a smile, lines bracketing her mouth as she says, voice as sweet as honey, “No grating.”

“What about chopping?” Tobin pushes back, still holding her ground as if to move would be to back down. She can feel Christen’s warm breath lightly hitting her skin from just how close they are, the cheese grater clutched in Christen’s hand between them. 

“No chopping.” 

“Washing up at least?”

“You’ll have to beat me at hoops to earn that,” Christen reminds her, as if that is law now. 

“You drive a hard bargain.”

“Hey. You got to be nice with the letting-me-stay and the fancy lunches. I need this, for me, for my ego. If my Sweet One reputation is ruined, what do I have left, Tobes?” She’s laughing warmly as she says it, and the still-crackling bacon in the background hums beneath the sound of her voice, an echo of the feeling simmering low in Tobin’s stomach. She sinks back on her heels for a little breathing space, easing away, the competitive side of her doing its best to ignore the look of triumph in Christen’s eyes.

Giving a dramatic sigh, her hands up in surrender, Tobin concedes. “Okay. But I can stir and, like, monitor progress.”

“You can move the bacon around the pan if it’ll make you feel useful,” Christen teases.

She knows she’s being mocked but, still, Tobin quietly mutters, “Thank you,” before picking up the wooden spatula that’s propped against the side of the pan.

It’s a worthy contribution, the smell of frying bacon saturating the room and whetting Tobin’s appetite, while Christen insists on handling everything else. Tobin quickly comes to accept that she’s been given a notably low-risk role in the operation as she watches Christen perfect the mixture of butter, flour and milk – added carefully bit by bit, as if a dash too much will upend the whole recipe. She’s quiet as she works and Tobin’s careful not to interrupt her focus, mindful of the little line above Christen’s nose marking out her concentration. 

It’s after the addition of onions and mushrooms to her frying pan that Tobin earns enough confidence from her head chef to assist a little more. She cuts the ends off two cloves of garlic, as instructed, and makes an only slightly incredulous noise at the order to drop them into the pasta water before helping mix the cheese into the sauce slowly: Christen adding carefully, Tobin stirring.

The team effort makes Tobin think perhaps she’d been wrong about cooking before.

Perhaps she might not miss having her meals prepared for her if there’s someone to cook with.

As promised, Tobin’s taste-testing duties are soon called upon as Christen takes over stirring the cheese sauce around, the flavors blending together as it all melts into one delicious-smelling cheesy goo. Tobin’s leaning all her weight onto the counter beside the stove, watching Christen work as she readies it for transfer into the dish. She fishes out the garlic from her pasta water, mashes it, then mixes that in too. Tobin notices the little crinkle above her nose fade, her features relaxing to a contented smile.

“Now, it’s time for the secret ingredient,” Christen declares. Without much warning, she holds out the wooden spoon she’s been stirring toward Tobin and says, “Here. Try this.” 

Tobin takes a modest little taste, her lips pressing against the sauce-coated spoon, before giving an approving nod. 

“Okay, well, you’re an easy customer,” Christen says with a big laugh, a deep, real one that feels a little like music to Tobin’s ears. “I’m gonna put in my secret ingredient and you can, umm, taste the difference, okay?” 

“Yes, chef.” Tobin salutes, grinning.

“You have to swear to the master of mac and cheese, Cody Press, that you will not spill his secrets.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, chef.”

Christen opens one of the cupboards and takes out an unopened bottle of Worcestershire sauce, tipping a generous dash in with the cheesy mixture. 

“That looked very scientific,” Tobin remarks with a laugh. 

“It’s more of just a feeling with this part,” Christen insists, putting the bottle down to continue stirring in the last-minute addition. Once she’s pleased enough with her efforts, she once again holds the spoon out for Tobin to have a taste, then she takes a taste herself. 

It’s as the indulgent, homemade cheese sauce settles in her mouth, sending her taste buds into a frenzy, that she watches Christen’s mouth cover the same spot where her own has just been. Christen’s eyes close as she takes in the taste of her beloved recipe, as if she’s disappearing back to her childhood for a moment, or perhaps thinking of a more recent family memory. She’s ventured to some other place, wherever the taste of this particular mac and cheese sends her, and a smile teases out across her expression slowly as Tobin watches.

When Christen opens her eyes again, her own smile meeting Tobin’s, she can’t seem to help herself from having another taste. She puts the wooden spoon back in the pan before drawing it out again, bringing it to her lips.

This time, a droplet of the sauce dangles precariously from the bottom of the spoon and Christen can’t get there soon enough before it falls. “Shit!” 

Tobin’s eyes fall to where Christen’s pulling at the hem of her top, the fabric stretched taut under her grip. There’s a yellowy stain sinking into the cotton there, even after Christen fingers away most of the escaped sauce. She quickly leans over the sink to wash it away as much as possible, rubbing the cloth against her t-shirt, but it leaves her with a big, damp patch on the chest of the top. 

“Well, this is a great look for me,” Christen says, resigned.

Tobin notices one of her hoodies on the corner of the sofa over Christen’s shoulder and runs to grab it. “You wanna throw this on over it?” she suggests, and Christen reacts quickly to catch the top as Tobin throws it.

For a moment, Christen holds it out in front of herself and Tobin wonders if she’s thinking of how to refuse the offer politely. Just as she’s fumbling to take back the idea somehow, the words on the tip of her tongue, Christen tips the hoodie upside down and threads her arms inside. When her head comes back out through the hood again, she’s smiling brightly enough that any notion of Tobin’s take-back dies away.

Christen keeps the hoodie on all evening after that. 

She’s wearing it as they work together, combining their ingredients ready for baking. She’s wearing it when they triumphantly pull their golden, glistening mac and cheese out of the oven. She’s wearing it as they sink into the sofa cushions with delicious pasta-filled bowls balanced in their laps as they watch Michelle Obama’s Netflix documentary together. She’s wearing it when dinner’s all gone – eaten up at lightning speed, even allowing extra time for second helpings – and they’re curled up across the two sides of the couch, half-asleep and mumbling about tomorrow. She’s wearing it as they watch the sunset through the windows, still lying in those same spots.

Christen looks extra cozy wrapped up in Tobin’s clothes like this. It almost seems as if she’s forgotten it’s not her own top. She could just dig something out of the spare room, something from the bag she’d brought down with her, but she doesn’t. 

Tobin thinks she might just let this girl wear everything in her wardrobe, one by one, till it’s all been made special by her. 

She fits into Tobin’s clothes the way that she fits into her life, like it’s already theirs to be evenly split between them. Christen seems to forget the hoodie was ever anything but hers, her fingers curling over the cuffs as she curls around herself on the sofa: cozy and sleepy and at home, it seems. At home enough that when Christen gets up with a goodnight on her lips and disappears into the room that has become hers, the last thing Tobin sees is the jade green sleeve of her hoodie pulling the door closed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I continue to hope that this story is comforting for those who choose to read it while we continue to figure out what life is going to be like in the middle of a pandemic. Since I last updated, it feels as if the world has shifted once again. I'm not suggesting that racism and police brutality is a new problem – it's not; it's one of the oldest problems there is. But the response to it, inspiring in terms of community action and terrifying in terms of government response, has felt different. We are seeing the escalation of violence continue every day, making it increasingly more urgent that we all collectively push for necessary systematic change. 
> 
> I would like to think that if you are here, if you believe in the USWNT and the social change they push for, if you've invested in this relationship between two women and want to read f/f fanfic, then you don't need to be convinced by some nobody fic writer to support the Black Lives Matter movement; it should be an extension of the intersecting social issues that you are invested in and actively supporting. If you are celebrating Pride Month, you must honor Marsha P Johnson, and acknowledge that the progress that's been made for the LGBTQ+ community since Stonewall was spearheaded by a Black trans woman. 
> 
> It is not enough to be passively non-racist; we must be taking real, tangible anti-racist actions. 
> 
> Right now, that means having uncomfortable conversations with the people around us, challenging outdated and offensive beliefs of others, reading and listening and raising up the voices of the Black community. For those that can, it means protesting at a time where it has never felt more unsafe to do so. It also means donating if you can. 
> 
> I don't have much of a platform, but I know that every time I post a chapter, a few hundred new hits come through. If you have enjoyed reading my stories over the past few months and you have even a little loose change to spare, I have a small request for all of you: **[please donate](https://secure.actblue.com/donate/bail_funds_george_floyd)**. That link will take you to a website where you are able to split donations between 39 community bail funds that are working in support of the Black Lives Matter movement (including the Portland Freedom Fund, the LGBTQ Freedom Fund and many others), for protests taking place all over the US. It will split the money for you, if you feel overwhelmed by the many options, or you can decide for yourselves how you wish to split it, with information about the different causes listed on the left. 
> 
> To sign the petitions, to find out more about contacting officials, for other places to donate (to victims, to Black-owned businesses, to protesters, to organizations, etc.) and for other resources: visit the **[BLM Ways To Help page](https://blacklivesmatters.carrd.co/)**. 
> 
> As always, I hope you are safe and well wherever you are. Thanks for taking the time to read my story, and thank you for taking the time to read this note.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who responded to my note at the end of the last chapter. I really appreciate those who took the time to engage with it, and encourage anyone who hasn't visited the **[Black Lives Matter website](https://blacklivesmatters.carrd.co/)** – to donate, to discover resources and to sign petitions – to do so. 
> 
> Just to give you a little heads up, my working situation has changed in a way that – while positive news for me – will probably slow the updates a little going forward. I only wanted to say something so that you weren't left in any doubt that I'm still excited about writing this one and continuing with it. It's just that I don't have quite as much time as I once did to work on it. Thanks for sticking with me.
> 
> I really hope you enjoy the new chapter!

It’s the middle of April before Tobin takes the familiar route across town to the other, smaller apartment she rents – the one she considers her art space. Intended as her creative cave, it also houses most of the muddled artefacts of her life that there isn’t room for anywhere else. After years as a nomad, her elder sister had pushed her into putting down roots at last, not least because she’d wanted rid of the full wardrobe of Tobin’s stuff that had been gathering dust in her own Brooklyn apartment, and this place had once been the start of that. It had been Tobin’s first step towards home. Her name on a deed, not a lease. 

It had been the first big thing she’d ever owned for herself. Hers to gather dust in the background of her life.

Now the apartment’s single bedroom remains filled with stacked cardboard boxes, bursting with years of memories and medals, and finished artworks that she’s not quite figured out what to do with. The main living space is organized chaos, with vast sheets of canvas taped to the floor marked with the seeds of ideas, and half-finished work on the walls waiting for another strike of inspiration. 

She’d lived there once, sort of. It hadn’t much felt like it, back when Portland felt like little more than a stopping place between Paris and California and Rhode Island and Florida and camp. Wherever the wind took her, wherever the wins took her. 

Even after, when she’d settled into a bigger place not far away, she’d often spent more waking hours there. It had become a place for burning off each new swell of creative energy without the formal rules and labels and traditions of the art she’d once been taught in school. In a strange way, spending hours holed up inside that small, plain space – a blank canvas that she’d unwittingly (and messily) filled with free-flowing personality – was often the most free she ever felt. But now her newer apartment had shifted into something more like home, and the incentive to stay at home had never been quite so pretty before. 

With Christen, she whiles away endless hours with conversations that flow through their days like liquid, taking up all the space that exists between work and training and sleep. Everything else but art can be done like that, with their talks permeating each activity: cooking, gaming, eating, relaxing. But the studio takes her away a little too long. Even when they aren’t speaking, Christen’s words fill her thoughts, and living a strange new reality with this exciting new person feels more urgent than creating meaning of it – at least at first. There is value, she recognizes, in just allowing herself to experience and absorb their time together without trying to make the art that’s blooming inside of herself right away. 

When she does eventually go, it’s only because she wants to check in on the property, as well as remind herself of half-baked ideas that she likes to keep fresh in her mind. There are endless projects that she often starts without quite knowing what they’re meant to become, and it’s her typical method, every time, that they live long in – as Pinoe refers to it – her ‘mind palace’, waiting to transform. Caterpillar ideas waiting to metamorphosize into something beautiful, something soaring, something new.

It’s a Saturday morning when Tobin wakes up earlier than usual and decides to sneak off, the air brisk and cool as it hits her outside, long before there’s any sign of Christen stirring for breakfast. Tobin texts her new roommate to say she won’t be long but doesn’t offer an explanation, not wanting quite yet to have to explain it to Christen. There’s something private about her other place, her art space, even though she knows Christen’s seen the paintings that have made it home. 

Nobody goes to that apartment except Tobin – ever. It’s her private cocoon.

As soon as she steps back inside it, a rush of warmth hits her like she’s visiting an old friend. It’s just as she’d remembered, just as messy, just as hers. She realizes only now how much she’d missed coming here, that thought triggering a sudden, intense feeling of missing everything – her whole great big life. It’s not that she’s not grateful for the past few weeks, for Christen above all else, but thoughts of family, friends, football scratch at the edges of this pretty picture of contentment she’s plastered over it all with. 

She takes a breath, noticing the smell of the place has changed. The ubiquitous paint fumes that so often stifle the air in this apartment, no matter how wide she opened the windows, are gone. There is a line of spray paint cans all sitting in a row across the countertop: blue, black, red, yellow and green. Her brushes are where she’d left them drying by the sink, artworks of every shape and size scattered about the place at random, the paint on one side of the sheet on the floor faded from where the daylight has streamed in through the window, soaking up the color. 

Quick to take her shoes off, she refreshes her memory of it all. 

The last time she was here was before camp, before SheBelieves, before quarantine. 

One of the last things she’d painted, one quiet, chilly afternoon before the last time she’d left Portland, is still tacked to the wall. Five interlocking rings: that same blue, black, red, yellow and green. She’d been in the midst of a flurry of ideas inspired by the new year at the time, all of them bubbling out of her, overflowing with hope and possibility. It transports her back, reminding her both how little and how much time has passed.

The sight of it prompts her to immediately pick up a paintbrush, one of the finer, rounded sable brushes, and a pot of jet black acrylic paint. Almost in a daze, she transforms the picture of those Olympic rings with the silhouette of a hand clutching at the bottom one. It’s simple and unrefined. A clenched fist clinging to the lowest point of the loop, blank space left to mark out each finger, pulling on it as if threatening to break the chain. It’s far from her finest work, far from precise; it’s simply a feeling transposed onto the paper. She does it because she wants to, because here there’s no judgment from anyone. If she’s ruining the original work beneath it, merely five simple rings meant to mark the year but fast losing their meaning, it doesn’t matter one bit. Because it is ruined now. It’s darkened and interrupted. Those rings aren’t meant to be the focus, but a backdrop. She sees that now. She sees them fading away, the artwork transforming beneath her hand like her goals shapeshifting to evade her grasp. 

Once it’s complete, she picks up a smaller brush and adds dashes of orange to shade along the line of the loop so that the darker color bleeds out into the canary yellow ring. 

She doesn’t know how much time passes as she stands in front of that painting, the day brightening around her, sun shining warmly down upon her through the glass balcony door by the time she’s finished. She doesn’t notice the morning disappearing until it’s gone. It’s nearly noon when she eventually checks her phone, a text waiting on her lockscreen for her that just says, _Harry, we need to catch up soon_ , with a stream of various different, incomprehensible emojis, all under the name Harry Long. From Christen, there is only a short, sweet, _Okay. No problem_ , with a blushing smile. It’s been a few hours, a few more if you count sleep, since she saw her – and yet there’s a pang of longing that’s so intense it knocks her out a little. 

She tidies up the place a little on her way out, putting her head around the bedroom door to check it’s all where she left it: messy but her mess, and then she heads back home. 

_Home_. 

She’s fond of the smaller apartment, fond of the way it keeps her incomplete ideas safe and snug and waiting for her return, but it doesn’t compare now. Home is a greater feeling, one that wraps itself around her heart and tugs like elastic. The squeeze of it is a comfort.

When she strolls back into the apartment – _home_ – she’s merrily whistling to herself with zero self-awareness. It’s a cheery tune that echoes off the edges of her mouth, a sharp, hollow sound bursting from beneath her tongue as she wanders through from the doorway to the kitchen and then the lounge, with no sign of Christen anywhere. That’s what halts her song, the whistling giving way to silence, her eyes big and wide and searching. For a brief moment, she worries Christen’s left for the day, made other plans already, that she’s missed her shot at company for the afternoon. And then she catches sight of her friend out on the balcony, a light gust of wind against the glass catching her attention. 

Tobin walks over to find Christen sitting in the sun with Tobin’s copy of _Untamed_ balancing in her lap. She’s wearing Tobin’s sunglasses too, the ones that barely feel like they belong to her anymore. It’s a second longer before she notices the hoodie Christen’s wrapped up in is hers, the green one from before, cuffs pulled up to cover most of her hands as she turns the pages. 

Christen looks up the moment Tobin opens the glass door to the balcony, a smile ready to greet her roommate. “Hey, you.”

“You stealing my book?” Tobin teases, her tone as warm as her smile as she takes a seat on the ground amongst the plants, her back against the balustrade. She holds her face up with the heel of her hand, her elbow propped against her knee, as she surveys the succulents and small shrubs around her. 

“You mind?” Christen asks, a little more serious.

“What’s mine is yours,” Tobin replies with a ready laugh, hiding her face when she swallows it down, the gulp loud between her ears. _Too much, too much, too much_. To distract, she busies herself by reaching up to the water bottle on the table and pouring a few drops into each of the plant pots. “You can just, uh, borrow whatever you like from that shelf, you know. That one’s great. Glennon’s, like, legit.”

Christen refrains from commenting on Tobin’s sudden foray into plant-parenting, watching with a smile but only replying, “Yeah, it’s good so far. Really good. I actually, umm, had to have a little weep out here earlier at the chapter about–”

“–When they first met?”

“And she says” – Christen flicks through the hardback to find the page, closer to the start of the book, that she’s looking for – “‘I am not sad to leave Abby. I am excited to leave her so I can think about her. I am excited to leave because I realize I have never in my life felt this alive, and now I just want to go out into the world and walk around feeling this alive. I just want to start being this new person I have just suddenly, somehow become.’” She looks up, shaking her head as if as rocked by it now as she had been upon first reading. “It’s so…” 

Tobin nods while the word Christen’s searching for hangs in the air, a blank space waiting to be filled. 

In the end, she settles on, “Powerful. To think about it like that.”

“Yeah.” Tobin nods. She tries to ignore the way her pulse seems to race, tries to ignore the flutter in her stomach, tries to ignore the voice in her head pointing out that those were the words that spoke loudest to her. “It’s, like, weird when it’s someone you know. I’ve known Abby since I was a kid, staying out at her place in Hermosa Beach with Kel when we were teenagers and, like… I don’t know, it’s… awesome for her. That she has that, you know?” 

Christen just smiles up at her, so big and bright, Tobin can’t help the sigh that rises up, catching in her throat before escaping on a long, slow breath. 

“It’s such a beautiful way to describe that feeling. The way it changes you,” Christen says, her voice sounding dreamy and distant for a second, her eyes not on Tobin but on the city: block after block bathed in the midday sunshine that glitters off the glass of each building. 

Tobin takes the shot while it’s open. Curiosity gets the better of her, aching to be quenched just a little. “You know that feeling?”

“Maybe. I guess. I don’t know. It sounds big, right? But, umm, maybe the idea of meeting someone that just… changes you, in ways that are exciting and invigorating… There are connections that just make you feel alive, or remind you… why… you’re grateful to be.” Christen’s eyes are fixed elsewhere, somewhere far away in the distance. But then they drift back to Tobin, like a ship floating in slowly to dock. “Does that make any sense?”

“Yeah,” Tobin replies, and she doesn’t look away, holding Christen’s gaze.

“Did you have a good morning?” Christen asks then, as if abruptly remembering Tobin’s absence. She pushes the sunglasses up to sit on the top of her head, pushing her hair back like a headband. Her eyes wince as they adapt to the daylight. 

Tobin’s smile stretches out at the sight of them, gorgeous green. She nods, softly replying, “I thought you would’ve headed out to the store by now.”

Christen glances down at the time on her phone. “Well, I, umm… I didn’t have a key to get back in so I figured I’d just wait for you to get back. I might go tomorrow, actually. Everything okay?”

“You, uh, don’t need to think twice about taking the key, you know,” Tobin says, only now realizing that she’d never offered it. This whole time they’ve been living together, she hadn’t thought to mention that spare key that lies in the china dish on her bookshelf, a Goofy keyring attached to it from some long ago trip to Disneyland she’d taken with her sisters and nephews. “It’s yours. I, like, didn’t even… I should’ve told you before.”

“Tobin,” she says, like it’s a whole sentence. “I wasn’t just gonna take your key.” 

“But you live here now too,” Tobin replies, a shrug behind it, and she doesn’t realize the weight of her words until Christen leans back in the chair, sliding her bookmark in before closing it. “I want you to have a key. Even after, you’ll have plants to keep alive here.” 

It just comes out. 

_After_. 

After Christen leaves, after normal life resumes, after this funny little marriage of convenience dissolves. Tobin doesn’t know exactly what she means by it, but she carefully studies the way Christen reacts: a laugh, shy and tucked close to her chest. 

“Okay,” she replies, her voice soft enough that Tobin wonders if Christen knows what it means to her. “But it seems like you’re coming around to those plants all on your own, Tobes.”

“No. No way. They still need their mom. Look at, uh, Wilting Wilma over there. She won’t make it without you,” Tobin insists, chuckling as she points to one of the sadder-looking marigolds that had been a late addition to the botanical assortment. 

“You’ve started naming them?” Christen asks, her tone derisive before she adds, with faux offence: “Without me?”

“You can name these guys,” Tobin offers, pointing to the succulents beside it, a selection of unusually shaped cacti. 

“Hmm, well,” Christen appraises them. Tobin watches her think about it, the way she closes her eyes, presses the tip of her forefinger to the end of her nose and basks in the sunlight as if letting the idea photosynthesize. Eventually straightening up, she drops her sunglasses back over her eyes before smiling again at Tobin. “Okay. I’m going with Cactus Everdeen, Tommy Prickles and Spike Lee,” she declares, in her most formal voice, pointing at the three different succulents as if knighting each one in turn. When she’s made her very official and legally binding announcement, she looks back over at Tobin just as she’s breaking up into a burst of laughter: chuckled hiccups of breath bubbling out of her. Christen’s laughter – gentler, melodious – joins in. 

“I hope you’re proud of yourself,” Tobin teases. Muttering to herself under her breath, she repeats, “Cactus Everdeen.”

“I’m very proud.” Christen preens, eyebrows hoisted almost obnoxiously high. “Those are all good, solid names. You’re lucky I was here to help you.” 

Tobin can’t argue that point, nodding to concede with a roll of her eyes. 

She decides that it’s the perfect moment to make it a little more official. Not just the plant names, but their whole arrangement. She clambers back up to her feet and sneaks back inside the apartment – only long enough to grab the spare key, metal chiming lightly against the china as she picks it up. Her whole life, she’s never given anyone a key to her place. She’s never lived anywhere long enough, nor dated anyone who lived close enough to need one. The way it happens for the first time is not what she might’ve imagined: a recent stranger barefoot on the balcony and sitting in her clothes, reading her book, naming her plants. 

She holds out the key and places it into Christen’s open palm, their skin brushing lightly in the exchange. It lasts long enough to leave Tobin wondering what it would be like to hold her hand, to press the lines of their hands together to forge a crossroads. 

When Tobin draws back, she watches the way Christen smiles to herself before even looking down. When she does glance down, she lets out a breath of laughter at the gesture. Christen picks it up by the chain of the keyring before studying the rubber, miniature Goofy hanging from it, letting it lay against the fingers of her other hand before saying, “Well, there’s no way I’ll forget who it belongs to.” 

*

A few days later, when Tobin discovers that she’ll have the apartment to herself for the morning, she hatches a top secret plan. As Christen’s latest work assignment forces her to head into her abandoned office in search of printed forms she has to transfer into a more quarantine-friendly online format, Tobin decides it’s the perfect opportunity to conduct an elaborate clean-up operation. The apartment – theirs now – isn’t looking its best: a little grime at the sink, a little dust on the shelves, accumulated cardboard boxes from various deliveries. It’s more her fault than Christen’s – in fact, it’s almost entirely her fault – so Christen’s absence seems the perfect time to organize the place. 

They’ve cleaned up together here and there over the past few weeks, but Tobin’s not used to being home so often; she’s not used to the way things just pile up somehow, chores always less appealing than the alternative. The alternative being to spend time chilling out with Christen. But there’s the voice inside her head reminding her that Christen could just decide to go home at any moment. The voice that tells her to do everything she can to make it homely enough to be worth staying for.

‘Sweet One’ reputation be damned, with full knowledge that Christen’s compulsion to help others can’t be tempered, Tobin realizes that if she wants to do a deep-clean alone, she needs to actually be alone. There’s no chance of Christen sitting back and letting her do it if she’s home; she’d be grabbing the rubber gloves before Tobin had even finished her sentence. 

As soon as Christen’s out the door early on a Monday morning, wearing the floral mask handmade by her sister that hides her farewell smile and muffles her words, Tobin is ready to pounce. She moves fast: pulling out the caddy filled with cleaning products, mentally drawing up a list of priorities, raking her hair back into a tight bun on the top of her head. There’s a drain to unclog, floors to sweep, shelves to dust, windows to wipe. If only her mother could see her now.

She opts for the ‘whistle while you work’ approach, her speaker blaring out hit after hit to back her up. Every task on the list is checked off one by one with its own soundtrack, as quickly as she can manage. 

She has no exact timing for Christen’s ETA, but she’d promised Allie to have a video call at 11am – which translates to 11.30am, at least, in Allie hours. It gives Tobin just enough time to plump the sofa cushions and grab a quick shower before she sets herself up in her bedroom for their Zoom catch-up. 

“Harry! Is it working? Can you hear me, Har? I missed you!” Allie’s big, giggling voice comes bursting out of the speakers of Tobin’s laptop the moment she joins the call, and the way her friend’s face lights up warms her immediately. Her former teammate is curled up at one end of a sofa that Tobin’s slept on many times, her computer clearly positioned on the edge of the coffee table that Tobin typically uses as a foot rest whenever they’re playing video games together.

“I hear you, Harry. Wait, let me just–” Tobin repositions herself on her bed, folding her legs so that the laptop is balanced in her lap. “Can you hear me okay?”

“You’re a bit, uh, like…”

“Sound’s not good?”

“No, it’s okay. Well, uh…” 

Tobin gets up and balances the laptop precariously on her forearm, the screen still up, as she heads into the kitchen. Experience of the past few weeks has taught her that the connection’s strongest in a very particular spot in the kitchen. “Is this better, Har?”

“Yeah, it’s better now.”

“Okay,” Tobin says with some relief, crashing down into one of the kitchen stools and adjusting the screen so that she’s clearly in frame. Once she settles, she greets Allie with a smile as big as Allie’s own. Bigger, perhaps, teeth bared proudly before she asks, “So, how are you? How’s the bap man?”

“He’s good, girlies are good too! We’ve been teaching them lots of new tricks, so I think they’ll be, like, ready for a full dog show performance soon.” As Allie talks, Tobin notices that her hair is longer than she’s ever seen it and the roots are darker – not that she’d dare point that out. “I’m, like, constantly waiting for Baby Baby Horse to arrive but, ugh, she’s taking _forever_. I swear, she’s gonna be late. Like her mom. Always late.”

“That’s so rich coming from you. She’s not even due yet, right?” Tobin points out, laughing at Allie’s playful annoyance. She knows perfectly well just how many rompers her friend has already bought Alex’s unborn child, having received regular text updates on the topic with patterns of dinosaurs, soccer balls, giraffes, rainbows – all varying degrees of tasteful. 

“No, but, like, I can tell already. And now we’re all just, umm, like, stuck inside all the time with nothing to do, it’s like… now’s your moment, baby girl. But, no. And, honestly, there’s only so long that these dogs can keep me busy.” 

“Are you thinking of having a baby now out of just boredom?”

“Maybe!” Allie blurts out, and then she laughs at herself. “No, no. But, like, oh my god, I’m so bored, Har. What’s going on with you? Are you doing lots of painting and cool art and stuff? When are you gonna paint me something?” 

“I’ll paint you something,” Tobin says fondly, her words dragging out as her mind drifts to bold, bright colors that are impossible to ignore. Streaks of neon, perhaps. “I haven’t been at the studio much, to be honest. It’s, like, not been… I don’t even know…” 

Allie interrupts and she’s relieved for a chance to think her way around the subject of Christen. “What else have you got to do really? There’s, like, nothing even to do. Tekkies all day?”

“I just finished cleaning this place,” Tobin starts, just as Allie pulls a face, registering her surprise. Tobin ignores it. “And I, uh, tried to learn to cook some stuff…” 

“Oh, no, Harry! That’s hilarious. Did it work?”

Tobin laughs at the question, tickled by the phrasing. “‘Did it work?’ I mean… I ate. I haven’t starved yet.”

“You didn’t burn down your building?” Every word Allie says is coated in a squeak of laughter.

“No, I, uh, managed not to start any fires.”

“Well, that’s good. It must suck that you’re all on your own there. I don’t want a lonely Harry.”

Tobin ducks her head low in the frame, shying from Allie’s scrutiny. There’s a part of her that thinks maybe if she gets a good look at her face, she’ll see the lie – or lie by omission – plain as day. All Tobin mumbles in reply is, “Haven’t gone mad so far.”

“You should, like, find that hot yoga girl from your building. Does she still live there?” Allie asks, offhand, oblivious, completely unaware of the potential goldmine of gossip she’s accidentally stumbled upon. 

The question blindsides Tobin. “What?”

“You said you ran into some hot yoga girl one time right before I came over. You gotta remember! It was the night after you beat us and you were gloating.”

Tobin does her best not to roll her eyes at the suggestion. “I wasn’t gloating. I’m pretty sure I was just, like, smiling regularly.” 

“Well,” Allie stumbles over her words, “it was, umm, like, gloaty smiling. Don’t think I forgot. I got a memory like a steel trap, Har.” She taps her forefinger to her temple a couple of times as if to emphasize the point.

Tobin shifts uncomfortably, her voice straining a little. “I don’t even remember who that, uh, coulda been.” She scratches her face, looking away from the camera and the screen.

Allie shakes it off quickly though, her attention span not allowing her to interrogate the issue further despite the laundry list of tells that Tobin knows she’s giving up. Cheerfully, Allie steers the conversation in a different direction. “I guess we’re all in quarantine anyway. It’s not like you’re gonna start dating someone in the middle of this, even if it would be fun for me.” 

“How is that fun for you?” 

“I miss our girly chats, Har,” Allie whines, jokingly. 

“I’m sorry to not be the source of gossip you seem to be craving. I’ll try to do better,” Tobin says, facetious, laughing it off as Allie giggles on the screen in front of her. 

The truth is Tobin has no memory of mentioning a “hot yoga girl” to Allie, but she’s left in no doubt about who she’d been referring to when she’d said it. It would’ve been entirely casual, some forgotten remark as Allie teased her about the single life. She can’t recall anything beyond a faint, hazy memory of running into Christen when they’d arrived home at the same time, both fumbling for their key fob at the same time before looking up at each other. She could picture the yoga pants, a purple print pattern on them, and a rolled up mat beneath her arm. The interaction hadn’t _meant_ anything. She’d never have said a word to Allie at the time if it had; her friend’s secret-keeping skills were notoriously bad. 

They’re barely a few sentences away from the topic, though Tobin’s internal monologue hasn’t moved away from it at all, when there’s a faint sound like a nail dragging across hardwood. The door. It’s Christen at the door, that newly gifted key turning in the lock. Tobin has only seconds to process it, not even turning to look, trying to keep cool and not draw Allie’s attention. The rational part of her brain freezes up, keeping her eyes fixed on the screen until Christen’s there too: walking behind her in the backdrop of the webcam video. She doesn’t notice at first, not until she sees Allie’s eyes light up in the bigger window on her laptop screen, her friend’s mouth twisted tight as if she wants to explode with words but is just about managing to keep them in. 

_There she is_. Kitted out in her typical home attire, vest and matching yoga pants, with a bag of groceries in her arms and her mask hanging loose at her neck. 

In the live video of Allie that takes up most of the laptop screen, she’s pointing accusatorially down the camera lens at Tobin. She stays silent, though, as if not quite wanting to disrupt the secret, as if wanting to observe it a little longer, as if knowing not to spook the aforementioned hot yoga girl with her enthusiastic surprise. 

Christen’s quiet, too, seeming to sense Tobin’s discomfort at the situation. 

It’s strange, this strained silence that endures just a little too long as Christen quickly unloads a few items on the kitchen worktops, opening the fridge briefly, before walking by again to head to her room. There’s a tight smile on her lips when she passes, catching eyes with Tobin who twists to face her just briefly, and Tobin does her best to return it. When she goes to speak, something stops her, the words trapped inside her throat. They’re there, they’re coming – slowly – and then she hears the sound of Christen’s bedroom door closing.

It’s only once Christen’s gone again that the sound erupts from the speakers as Allie lets loose, whisper-yelling: “Harry? When I asked if you’d seen ‘hot yoga girl’ and you said no, were you ignoring the hot yoga girl in your apartment on purpose? Harry, what the hell?” 

“Not, umm, the same person at all. That’s just my friend, Christen.” She wants to say ‘neighbor’, to add some distance to the relationship as she describes it to Allie, but given that the only knowledge her friend has of the ‘hot yoga girl’ is that she lives in the building, it feels like an unwise descriptor for the moment. 

“Since when do you have a roommate?”

“We, uh, decided to, like, you know, stick together while all this is happening,” Tobin explains, struggling to articulate it fully to an outsider now that she’s put on the spot. It’s the first time she’s told anyone, the first time anyone’s found out. She’d kept it quiet from her family, her teammates, her coaches, her friends. Until now.

“Well, it’s good that you’re getting laid, at least,” Allie reasons, almost entirely serious. 

Tobin rolls her eyes and tries to fight off the bloom of red in her cheeks. “We’re friends.”

“Friends with benefits?” Allie waggles her eyebrows.

“No, just friends.” It comes out a little sharper than she means it to.

“Harry, really?” Allie laughs at her, the volume of it catching the attention of one of her dogs who comes bounding over to be petted. Tobin hears the patter of paws against the floor before she sees Kassie sink into her friend’s lap onscreen. “I thought you had more game than that.”

“She’s literally, like, in the next room,” Tobin replies, her tone pleading as her wide eyes drift in the direction of the closed door to Christen’s bedroom. “I’m hanging up on you now.”

“I believe in you, Har,” Allie calls back, her words speeding up as Tobin leans forward to find the ‘End Call’ option on the screen. Allie’s still in the middle of saying, “You love me really, Harry, come on! I missed you,” dragging out the last vowel, when Tobin shuts it all down. 

She slams the laptop shut, as if to make doubly certain that it worked. 

Tobin hunches forward, elbows pressed hard against the countertop as she holds her head in her hands. She massages her temples for just a moment. _Fuck_.

She should’ve introduced them. She should’ve broken the ice, played it off cool and easy. She should’ve said something, anything, even just a hello. A smile? All she’d given was a tight-lipped smile. Tobin’s wracking her brains to understand what the hell just happened. 

She sits back up straight, rolling her shoulders. A deep breath. Another, for good measure.

Tobin spins around to scan the room, traces of the encounter left behind: the newly-bought groceries on the side next to Christen’s key, the scrap of fabric that Channing had fashioned into a mask, the empty hallway. 

She slides off the stool and wanders the few steps toward the closed door of Christen’s bedroom, knocking gently twice. There’s a part of her that expects it to go unanswered, a part of her that wants to rap so lightly on the wood that she can convince herself no one heard it. But Christen’s far too kind for that, too generous and forgiving. She doesn’t even make her wait too long before opening it, a “Hey,” on her lips, warm as ever, rallying a smile and looking thoroughly unfazed by the whole, bizarre incident. “You off your call?” 

“Yeah, I am. Sorry, uh, about all that. I wasn’t expecting you home yet. I lost track of time and, uh, I’m sorry about... I should’ve introduced you guys,” Tobin stammers through, flipping her hair from side to side as she talks.

“That’s okay. I didn’t want to impose.”

“I–I don’t want you to feel like… that. I just…” Tobin scratches the nape of her neck, struggling to explain it away. “She’s, like, the biggest gossip I know. I love her, but–”

She notices Christen’s shoulders drop, her eyes softening a little as she asks,“What kind of rumors are you worried about?” 

“Pretty girl in my apartment who I’ve never mentioned? Oh, I think the obvious one.” Tobin says it flippantly, dragging her eyes away from Christen’s even as they spark a little at the compliment. She tries to play it off, digging deep to recover some long-lost nonchalance. “They’re extremely bored too, so it’ll be, like, texted to the whole roster in minutes.”

Christen laughs sweetly, her smile brightening as the ripples of laughter escape, and then she bows her head. It’s only now as Christen’s smile lifts that Tobin sees the lie of it before. “Okay. That makes sense,” she accepts, looking back up to meet Tobin’s eyes, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. “I get it.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“You wanna help me make lunch?” If it sounds pleading, Tobin chooses not to care.

“Sure,” Christen says, and the tension in Tobin’s body drains out of her as they fall into stride on their way back to the kitchen. Over her shoulder, as if the whole incident had never happened, Christen adds, “I managed to pick up some crunchy PB on my way home, by the way. The one you like.” 

Tobin’s face lights up. She knows it. She feels her like her whole body is lit up in neon. She’s just grateful Christen’s facing away, looking ahead. But there’s too much gratitude bursting inside her for her to let it slide, and something compels her forward, her feet walking themselves closer until the gap’s gone and Tobin’s arms are wrapping around Christen’s slim frame to squeeze her inside a hug. 

It’s silly and playful, all while Tobin is brimming with relief, trapping Christen’s arms against her body as big bursts of laughter erupt from her small frame. Tobin can feel her shaking with it, shifting playfully inside Tobin’s hold as she tries to continue walking. When she says Tobin’s name – pleading, laughing still, trying to catch a breath – it’s a sudden blaze of reality, stirring her from the magic of the moment. Too close to the fire, Tobin lets her arms fall away and steps back, following Christen’s lead still but at a distance once again. 

*

“And with that, mi compadre, I take your bishop,” Tobin declares, dragging her rook across the board to knock Christen’s piece out of place. They’re both sitting cross-legged on one side of Tobin’s corner couch, facing towards each other, the chess board between them and discarded pieces scattered around it.

“So, so cocky,” Christen replies, a little cockiness about herself too – enough that Tobin’s unsettled by it, scanning the board again to review where that leaves her, only to find that she’s caught in a trap. “Say goodbye to your little friend.” 

Tobin’s shaking her head, her nose scrunched up in frustration as she watches Christen draw her rook back to stand in a row with the many pawns that have already served as collateral damage. She’s still got more pieces of Christen’s off the board than vice versa but the confidence Christen’s exuding now tells her it’s far from over.

“I think we should make this interesting, you know,” Christen suggests.

“What d’you mean by interesting? Like, stakes?” Tobin digs her teeth into her bottom lip as she waits for the answer, dancing dangerously on the edge of flirting – like it’s a goal line and she’s got a ball at her feet. Just inside the line, _on_ the line even. Never crossing it. 

“Yeah, if I win,” Christen starts, imitating Tobin’s same teasing tone, eyes locked on Tobin’s as they glide into this daring unknown. There’s a smile in the pause, perhaps a warning, and then she crash-lands with a thunk: “I think you should have to stop sneakily cleaning the apartment when I go out.”

Tobin’s head drops dramatically, before she concedes with a laugh. “You noticed that, huh?”

“Tobes, you folded my laundry,” she points out, her tone rising in the middle of the sentence. Tobin notices the way her features soften, too, her expression open and warm. There’s not quite a smile there, but her eyes give her away just a little if Tobin’s learned anything in the past few weeks. 

“Well, I was, uh, doing mine and it was just, like, right next to it,” Tobin explains, shrugging it off. Wanting to swiftly deflect, she suggests an alternative: “If you win, I’ll watch that romcom with you that you were talking about.”

“You will? Really? I know you hated the last one.”

Tobin quickly reverts to an argument they’d once spent the entire evening on, hands gesturing adamantly as she points out, “Chris, he won Wimbledon and he didn’t even have a coach! That’s insane. Not in, like, a hyperbolic way. I mean, that is actually insane. It just didn’t make any sense! Like, how did they make this movie?” 

“But it was cute, right?” The corner of Christen’s mouth lifts, slanting into a smile. 

Tobin groans. “Whatever. If I win…”

“Here we go.” Christen throws her head back, playing up her annoyance. 

“If I win, you have to tell me what Elena told you about me.”

Christen grins so broadly, Tobin feels her adrenaline spike just looking at her. It feels dangerous, the way her sisters used to warn her never to look directly at the sun. Too much, all at once. 

“You accept those terms?” Tobin asks, glancing down at the chessboard as if wanting to get a move ahead just to reassure herself of her strategy. When she looks back up, Christen’s holding out a hand for her to shake. 

“I hope you’re not gonna be a sore loser,” she teases, just as their palms press together to cement the agreement. Tobin chooses to ignore the goading, her eyes narrowing on the chess pieces before she makes her next move: a pawn, a simple step forward. She catches the corner of Christen’s mouth quirk ever so slightly, a hint of a smile teasing the strike to come. 

It’s not immediate. She loses nothing on her next turn, neither does Christen.

They alternate at slow, steady intervals, carefully scanning every piece on the board in search of a strategy, seeking to undo their opponent’s. 

“So,” Christen starts, her eyes still firmly fixed on the chess set between them. “Hot yoga girl, huh?”

Tobin feels her face burning up, her eyes flashing wide as she meets Christen’s gaze. She knows it’s part of the game; she knows Christen’s saved this up just to throw her off. She can’t help that it works, though. “You heard that?”

“I heard your friend ask if it was me.” Christen looks up, before adding, “Which is nice, I guess.” 

Tobin shifts awkwardly. The movement of it makes the sofa dip a little, causing a few of the discarded chess pieces to fall together. It’s a reminder, pulling her back to the game even as Christen draws her out of it. 

“Well, who is she then? If we’re gonna be stuck together, I wanna know the gossip,” she pushes.

“No gossip. It’s just, uh…” Tobin panics, searching her mind for anything to throw Christen off the scent – even if she seems to have done a fairly good job of that all on her own. “A girl I see around sometimes, like at the store or whatever.”

“Ah.” Unreadable. Her lips tuck in together in the silence so that there’s nothing but a blank, straight line where her mouth should be, then she says, “I thought it might be an old flame.”

“No, I, uh…” Tobin looks away, flipping her hair over so that the parting switches. “You have me down as a player? I tend to do a better job than that at remembering names. This, like… girl… she’s, uh… We’ve not spoken. I’ve just seen her. She’s blonde,” she lies, the words spilling out suddenly as she panics. “And, uh, it’s not a thing. Harry would like it to be a thing because Harry’s, like, incredibly bored and has nothing better to do, but it’s… it’s not.” 

Christen says nothing, and the silence that follows is unsettling.

“Stop distracting me,” Tobin complains, even though Christen’s quiet now. Her quiet might be just as off-putting as her teasing comments.

“Oh, of course,” Christen says seriously, nodding with such a grave look on her face that Tobin knows she’s still toying with her, “we should talk about her later when we’re not focusing on the game.”

Tobin laughs it off, trying a little too hard to remain nonchalant. She’s been cool-headed her whole life and yet now, suddenly, she’s burning up. All she can think to say is, “Maybe I’ll tell you who she is if you can win the game.” 

Christen’s eyes light up. “Now that’s a much better bet.” 

Tobin’s struck by how desperately she needs to win this damn game now. But there’s entertainment to be found in the way Christen cares too, wants it just as much as she does. “You’re so competitive,” she mumbles, mostly just to herself. When she lifts her head, she says, “I’ve never met someone who’s more competitive than me before.” 

“Well, it’s nice to meet you and game on,” Christen ripostes. She punctuates the sentence by swiping her bishop across the board between them, knocking Tobin’s last remaining knight from its position.

Their game continues. Each move slow and cautious.

There are long stretches of silence but for the sounds of the city outside. Every bit of focus is channelled into the game, both of them determined to win, determined to outmanoeuvre the other. 

It’s as Tobin’s taking her time considering the best call for her next move – neither of them having lost a piece for at least 15 minutes now – that Christen’s thoughts drift back to her new favorite subject. “Hey. How come you call her Harry and she calls you Harry?”

After she finally makes her move, her only remaining rook sliding across only one square, Tobin’s eyes flick up. She laughs to herself, unsure where to start with that one. “Uh…” 

“Sorry. It’s probably an inside joke,” Christen’s quick to say, cutting off Tobin’s hesitant answer.

“Pretty sure every joke’s an inside joke at this point,” Tobin quips, gesturing at their perpetual surroundings. The humor is her best effort at hiding her uneasiness with the way Christen apologizes for the question, the way she seems to doubt her right to ask. It brings with a flash of shame over the way she’d handled the Harry incident earlier in the day.

Christen just rolls her eyes, but there’s a smile that forgives Tobin her questionable joke. Perhaps it forgives a few other things too.

“No, I, uh… genuinely can’t even remember, really,” Tobin says, trying to explain, trying to show willing. “She just called me it one day, and then I called her it back, and it stuck. I haven’t really, like, overthought it. We were really close when she was here in Portland with me, so I guess… it just really became a thing because we were always together.” She tries to suppress the lilt of yearning she knows can be heard from a mile off. But there’s such an intense burst of sadness that hits her with those memories. It’s not about Allie so much as all of it: life. It’s strange the way it creeps up on her so immediately, like a jump-scare that Allie herself would be proud of.

“You miss her?” Christen asks, so gently, it pushes at a delicate crack that Tobin hadn’t known was there. Tobin doesn’t pay close attention to Christen’s next move, caught up instead in the question.

“Don’t you just… miss everyone?” Tobin thinks aloud. It’s heavier than she means it. She catches herself by surprise, the longing thick and rough in her voice as she speaks. There’s a wave of tears that rises in a rush, forcing her to bow her head for just a moment, until the worst is done, its emotion washing over her as she folds herself small. It can’t hit her hard and full like this, but still the melancholia spills through the cracks, its force leaving her floating momentarily adrift. 

She feels a hand at her shoulder first, firm and certain. Like seeing life, hope, in the distance. 

Before she looks up, Christen’s shifted off the couch and moved to wrap her arms around Tobin’s neck. She kneels to hold her – and that’s what it is, Christen holding Tobin. The one-sided embrace proves more reassuring than Tobin expects. It’s comforting on a level that feels profound, the soothing effect seeming chemical; her brain just stills. Being held by Christen feels like meditation, and Tobin shifts to hold Christen too, lifting her head up so that she can tuck her face into the curve of Christen’s neck. Tobin holds her and thinks about nothing else, the two of them squeezing each other tight like they’ve known each other all their lives, like they’re drifting out to sea with only one another to cling to, like they’re returning somewhere they’ve been a thousand times before.

“For what it’s worth, ya got me,” Christen whispers delicately, the words dancing along a melody, they’re so warming and welcome. Her breath is close to Tobin’s ear as she speaks and the intimacy of it stirs that flutter she feels sometimes in her stomach. Dizzying.

She can only laugh, a single half-hearted snort of a laugh. She draws away from their embrace and lets Christen settle back into that same criss-cross position on the other side of the chessboard, eventually clearing her throat and finding her words: “It’s worth a lot, Chris.” 

When she looks down at the board again with fresh eyes, she notices that in Christen’s effort to protect her queen, she’s left the king open and aligned diagonally with Tobin’s own queen. It seems almost too easy. It’s a shot at an empty net.

“You’re smirking,” Christen points out, her long eyelashes fluttering as she glances down to see why. 

“I win,” Tobin says, still not touching a piece on the board. 

Christen tuts to herself in a faint display of frustration, accepting it far easier than Tobin expects her to. “You do.” She looks back up at Tobin, who’s waiting now, waiting for her reward. “You want your prize right now?”

Tobin clears her throat again. “Come on. Hit me with it!”

“Okay.” Christen heaves out a sigh, pressing her lips together as she prepares her explanation. Tobin’s eyes widen pointedly, prodding for the confession. “The truth is, I was actually, umm, just teasing you about Elena. She loves you, actually.” She stops to smile to herself, bowing her head as if trying to keep it a secret. “I was just trying to get a rise out of you. When she calls you her little nutmeg spice, she means it with great affection, says, ‘She’ll kick a ball through anyone’s legs, you just watch her,’” Christen admits, imitating what Tobin imagines is the voice of her neighbor. “And she has a scarf with your name on it hung up on her wall. I saw it proudly on display. Tobin Heath 17.”

“You made me so paranoid,” Tobin reminds her, reeling from the revelation, shaking her head with disapproval. “If she likes me so much, how come she’s never said a word to me? She obviously knows I live here.”

“She’s a terrible gossip when it comes to everyone else, but she always says she’s too shy to talk to you.” Christen says it like it’s a simple answer, like it makes sense. “I asked her about the scarf and she said, ‘She’s the star of that team, I tell you, Sweet One. You just have to see it.’ And so she showed me.”

“Showed you?”

“She’s the one who showed me the first match of yours I saw. It was, umm, during the World Cup. She was having terrible back trouble in the summer, so I picked up some groceries for her and she invited me in for some cake. She had the game on. The, uh, France game I think it was.” Christen closes her eyes in an effort to summon the memory, grinning to herself when it comes back: “You, umm… I saw you pass the ball to Megan Rapinoe right in front of goal. Handed it straight to her.” 

“She made you watch my game?” Tobin can’t quite believe it, laughing to herself, eyebrows hitched halfway up her forehead.

“Was it worth the past” – she glances down at her phone – “hour and a half for me to admit that to you?”

“Yes. It really was.”

Christen only looks down, whatever laughter she might’ve had at that hidden from view. Unfolding her legs, she moves to stand up, teasing, “I’m still pushing for my romcom.”

“Keep dreaming,” Tobin replies, her eyes closing as she feels Christen’s hand squeeze her shoulder. Barely a second. Almost nothing at all. By the time Tobin looks up, Christen’s already started organizing the chess pieces back into each specially-molded groove on the flipside of the board. Each one slots into place, one by one, until together they’ve packed it all away. Not a trace of their game left. 

But Tobin can’t forget it. 

She can’t forget the way it felt to be held.

She can’t forget the guilty look on Christen’s face as she’d confessed her little secret. 

She can’t forget Elena, who’d inadvertently laid the groundwork for whatever they are to each other now. Something good and important and a little bit precious.

Tobin holds onto every thought and feeling that the evening had stirred, clinging to them for the next few days. They drift through their normal routine of a thousand little moments that mean nothing on their own but so much when added together. 

It’s still on her mind when she returns to the other apartment across town not even a week later. It’s there, where she’s got boxes full of stuff that’s never been organized, that she finds an old, familiar pair of cleats. Opening an orange box with the Swoosh loud and proud on the side, she sees the Nike Mercurial Vortex II FGs that – technically speaking – remain the only pair that have scored her a World Cup goal. She can’t help but smile at the sight of them, still gleaming ocean blue with the neon green studs at the back. Coming up on five years old now. They’re pretty clean, by her standards, and when she takes one out, she makes a quick decision. 

On the top of the box, she writes in Sharpie: _“Elena, thanks for putting a good word in for me with apt. 23. A little something to show my gratitude, as well as my appreciation for the support you’ve given me over the years. These won big with me, but I know you’ll look after them. Hope to see you at the Park soon. Your fan, Tobin from upstairs.”_

She brings it home with her, stopping on the ground floor to leave the shoebox on a stranger’s doorstep. 

She knocks.

Then she leaves.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, thanks for waiting a little longer than usual! I think it was the length of this thing that slowed me down this time, so I hope you enjoy all nearly 10k of it. (I don't know what to tell you.) I hope you enjoy the latest update. Sending you all the good vibes, wherever you are.

When Tobin gets word that the moratorium on NWSL training sessions has been extended to the 15th May, she can’t muster much disappointment. She hadn’t expected anything different. She’d stopped holding her breath for normality pretty early, knowing better than to hang on to every word of every update. When the only faces she sees out on supply runs and training runs are half-covered in masks, it’s hard to be convinced it’s safe to resume anything resembling normal life. It’s hard to imagine when it will be.

Not yet, not for another three weeks at least. Brief groan aside, it seems easy enough to accept the news. 

What’s harder to accept is when Christen says, “You know, I can go home if you’re getting sick of me,” that very same morning, while Tobin’s digesting all of the latest information across several lengthy emails from various coaches and administrators. It’s the amount of information she’s expected to wade through at 7am that has her frowning and irritable, but Christen continues: “It’s pretty boring but, umm, I wouldn’t wanna outstay my welcome and I imagine they must’ve tired each other out by now.” 

Tobin had barely remembered the oversexed couple who’d prompted their cohabitation. 

“What? No. Please stay,” Tobin says a little too eagerly, glancing up from reading a text from Pinoe – _Facetime later?_ – as Christen busies herself with making breakfast. “I swear I’m gonna lose my mind if you leave.” 

Christen laughs a little, eyes fixed on the poached eggs she’s laying over avocado-covered sourdough toast. First on one plate, then the other.

“Sorry, I’ve been… distracted all morning,” Tobin admits, sensing the issue. 

“No, I just…” Christen looks up, the pepper shaker in her hand suspended in midair. “I’m aware that you, uh, might want your space to yourself at some point. Like, we have no idea how long this is gonna go on for and you’re under no obligation to let me just… stay forever.”

_Stay forever_. _Now there’s an idea_. 

“Have I made you feel… not welcome anymore?” Tobin asks, abandoning her phone with a clunk on the countertop to pin all of her attention on Christen. Her concern is entirely earnest and serious, at least until Christen smiles for her: a broad, perfect smile, her cheeks lifting in such a way that it has the same effect on Tobin’s whole mood. 

“Tobin, I’m just making sure.” She says it easily, like taking a breath, and Tobin takes a breath with her. 

“Okay, good.” Tobin’s unabashed in her relief, moving around the kitchen to close the gap between them. Wrapping her arms around her friend from the side and squeezing too tight to risk anything heavy permeating the moment, Tobin says, “You’re not allowed to leave now.”

Real, rich laughter bubbles out of Christen, who sets her hands over Tobin’s arms gently, not resisting the embrace but steadying it. “Does that mean I get to choose a movie for tonight?”

Tobin groans, her head rolling melodramatically against Christen’s shoulder. “A romcom?”

“Yes, a romcom! Why not a romcom, Tobes?” Christen escapes Tobin’s clutches and starts in on her eggs, stabbing a fork down into the yolk so that the vivid orange goo oozes out across the sourdough and leaks onto the plate. “I watched _The Last Dance_ with you, didn’t I?”

Tobin shakes her head as she leans over the counter, taking a fork in hand to claim her own breakfast. Still with food in her mouth and muffling her words, she points out, “One episode!”

“So far.” Christen rolls her eyes. “We can watch the rest.”

“You were on your phone for most of that!” 

“I was looking things up about Scottie Pippin! I was curious!” she defends herself. 

Tobin’s chuckling, enjoying how much she’s got Christen riled up, enjoying the complete absence of her characteristic zen in that moment, enjoying the way Christen’s so willing to play along. “But they’ll tell you that stuff if you keep watching. It’s, like, gonna spoil it.”

“It’s not gonna spoil it. It’s not a murder-mystery. I just wanted to know who to invest in emotionally, you know? I don’t wanna root for anyone and then find out from Wikipedia that they were a terrible person,” Christen reasons as she carefully loads a perfectly even combination of toast, mashed avocado and egg onto her fork. “Which, come on, Rodman.”

“Why don’t you just watch it and then figure it out?” Tobin continues shaking her head. “No, you know what, this is dumb. It’s about Jordan being, like, the greatest athlete of all time and you want to Google the rest of the team? Like you were gonna root for Rodman anyway.” 

“All I’m saying is that when I was on my phone, it wasn’t because I wasn’t paying attention. You could say I was paying _too much_ attention, if anything.” Christen punctuates her counter-argument with another mouthful of food, her eyebrows raised in challenge. 

Tobin looks at her, a little speechless. Amusement pulls at the corners of her mouth, despite her best efforts. Christen is her most charming like this. All of her edges are softened, a teasing smile on her lips even as she eats, her hair wild and free and swept over to one side, her outfit a lazy combination of pajamas and sweats. 

It’s exactly these moments, early in the day, that feel most like something more, in a strange way. Not the afternoons, which have always been filled with friendship, wherever in the world Tobin found herself. Not the evenings, that still aren’t wildly different from the kind of platonic hangs that had been habitual for Tobin and her buddies, whichever group she was with. But the mornings. The mornings that always felt like such a struggle, that she’d usually shrink down with a little more sleep, that weren’t worth waking for until she’d had a vat of coffee. 

Now, she sinks into the intimacy of sleepy breakfasts spent side by side with Christen, in the kitchen or out on the balcony. The familiar shuffle of Christen’s feet padding around as she gets up have become Tobin’s only alarm, luring her out of bed even as she overthinks her rush to follow suit, slowing herself long enough to avoid seeming overeager. The ease with which Christen moves around Tobin’s home marks a change now, the previous night’s plates often casually unloaded from the dishwasher in a well-rehearsed dance that Tobin joins like they’re two kids stepping into a skipping rope. Tobin stops only to fire up the coffeemaker for the two of them, but it’s then that sometimes – often, now – Christen will take her by the waist and move her aside to reach into the cupboards. The feeling of that touch burning through the thin cotton hem of her sleep shorts is enough to wake up early for; it’s enough that sometimes she can’t help but put herself in the way on purpose. 

Perhaps sensing Tobin’s playful irritation receding, Christen suggests, “What if we compromise and watch a soccer romcom this time?” 

“A _soccer_ romcom? Is that… I don’t know if those exist, Chris,” Tobin near sniggers. Resigned, because Christen’s got that look on her face like she’s not going to give it up, she accepts, “But sure. If you can find one, I’ll watch it with you.” 

Sounding exceedingly sure of herself, Christen insists, “Oh, I can find one.” 

And, right then, it’s funny the way Tobin’s reticence transforms into impatience, purely by the way Christen grins to herself. Suddenly, she doesn’t want to wait until later for the chance to sit down with Christen, for at least the duration of whatever silly movie she chooses – any excuse to be still together, to hang out like the best friends they’ve become. The several hours between now and then are really the only thing that have her clinging to the last remnants of her bad mood. Because Christen is kind and lovely and she smiles when Tobin teases her, and the training plan for the day checks precisely none of those boxes. 

“One condition,” Tobin adds as an idea dawns on her. She takes another crunching bite of toast, leaving Christen to ponder through the pause, eventually elaborating: “Come out on the field with me later. Play with me.” 

“What?” Just as Christen goes to take a sip of her coffee, she draws the mug away from her mouth. “Are you serious?”

“Totally,” Tobin says, a lazy shrug with it. 

“But I’m not, uh, good at soccer.” Christen screws up her face as if wondering if she needs to check Tobin for a concussion or some other minor head injury, her eyebrows pinched together. 

As though it’s a favor no more demanding than a ride to work, Tobin explains, “I just need you to try and get in my way a little.” She’s peppy now, full of confidence that Christen won’t be able to turn her down. That’s what their dynamic has quickly become: taking turns to talk each other into things. “I’ll put the mannequins up too so you’ll have some teammates. It’ll be fun.”

Christen only stares back skeptically.

“Fresh air, endorphins, my awesome sense of humor,” Tobin lists off, and then she does what Christen does when she likes to get her own way: she pulls her mouth into an exaggerated smile, broad enough that Christen could probably count her pearly white teeth, eyes imploring. “You’re coming,” she decides, unilaterally, as Christen folds her arms. 

*

That’s how they end up on the field together a mere two hours later.

Tobin, bouncing with every step, holds on to the football like it’s the World Cup trophy as Christen trails behind. It’s bright out but cool. The wind picks up a little on the walk over to the field from Tobin’s car and has Christen wrapping her arms around herself, rubbing her hands up and down them like it’s colder than it is. Tobin thinks it’s just nerves. There’s nothing to be nervous about but Christen seems it now, her lip marked red from where she’s been biting it and her shoulders high to her ears. 

Tobin takes her time setting up her cones, her mannequins, her training poles and the rest of it, sending reassuring smiles in Christen’s direction every time she catches her eye. Christen watches like she’s fascinated by it all, holding things at the requisite moments and following along like Tobin’s dedicated assistant. It coaxes out a little willingness, bit by bit, as Christen analyzes the layout of the various props, her curiosity piqued. Perhaps it’s just her compulsion to be helpful drawing her out of her comfort zone. Helping others might be the most familiar thing of all to Christen, by Tobin’s assessment. And what Christen doesn’t know yet, what Tobin believes wholeheartedly, is that she’ll even enjoy this. 

They start out with a few simple passing exercises, drills to get them both loosened up – Tobin in the physical sense, Christen in every sense. She giggles almost every time the ball comes her way and Tobin can’t help but feel a little giddy at the sound of it. Their passes aren’t fast touches, but lackadaisical, no-pressure taps from one to the other. Enough to get Christen used to the feel of the cleats on her feet, a spare pair of Vapors that Tobin had dug out for her, their shoe size fortuitously matching. She’s kitted out in an all-Tobin ensemble, in fact, the ‘17’ branding unmissable, marked out in a clean white font on one leg of the shorts, though Tobin’s trying not to focus on it.

Training proves to be a steady process as they ease into it, with Tobin cautious about introducing each new element of the session, casually balancing the ball on the top of her foot as she assures her friend, “You can bail at any point, but, like, no pressure. I’m not expecting pro defending. It’s just helpful to have a bit of movement as well as the obstacles.”

“That makes sense,” Christen says, double-nodding as if once for Tobin and once more to convince herself she can do it. 

“You look nervous.” 

“I just… want to be good at it for you,” Christen admits, throwing her arms out in a shrug after passing the ball back to Tobin. “I’m gonna try my best and we’re all gonna pretend I did a good job, okay? And then I get to have a double portion of that cake I put in the cooler.”

Tobin stops the ball under her cleat. “You put cake in the cooler?”

“Well, it’s got cream cheese frosting, Tobes. It’ll get all melted otherwise.” 

Tobin smiles to herself. “You can have all the cake after. Promise.”

“‘Kay.” Christen’s satisfied at that, and Tobin’s suddenly more grateful to an inanimate red velvet cake than seems totally rational. If that’s what it takes to motivate her friend, she’ll happily go with it. Hell, she’ll bake it herself next time if need be.

With cake on the line, they start to shift into Tobin’s shooting exercises, with Christen attempting to run interference on every attack. 

At first, she doesn’t seem to know what to do with herself. She’s all loose limbs, bouncing and shifting in front of Tobin with a determined look on her face. It’s distracting, the way fondness tightens in Tobin’s chest like her heart’s a clenched fist, making her more breathless than the exertion itself. They’ve barely started and yet Tobin can feel silent laughter caught up in heavy breaths, stuck in her throat, even as she tries to navigate away from Christen and towards the goal. She puts in a run, breaking away from her training partner to send a rocket just over the crossbar. 

When they reset to go again, Tobin immediately tries for a nutmeg as Christen’s legs separate for a step. She mistimes it, the ball rebounding off the arch of Christen’s foot to roll away. 

The surprise of her own failure delays Tobin’s reflexes before she moves to retrieve the ball, trying again, but Christen steps to it at the same time, causing them to collide. Tobin catches a low, meek groan that escapes Christen as they clash. It has her drawing back so fast they come apart like it’s an electric shock. Christen’s hand goes to her knee, even as she reclaims the ball at her feet. 

“Are you okay?” Tobin asks, grimacing, fully aware that Christen doesn’t have the same tolerance for contact sport that she has. She doesn’t fight for the ball; she forgets it entirely.

“I’m good,” Christen replies, her voice straining as she lets go of her leg.

“Are you sure? We can stop.” 

“Tobes, I’m good,” she repeats, this time far more convincingly. “Come on. You afraid I’m gonna beat you?” 

Tobin laughs as she shakes her head. _Ridiculous_. 

It’s seconds before she breaks out with a sprint to steal the ball back, dashing past Christen, dodging around the obstacles she’d set up and taking a bold strike. It curves its way into the top left corner and she can’t help but enjoy it, feeling a swell of pride that Christen’s there to witness it. She turns back, taking a bow to ham up her gloating while Christen rolls her eyes. 

“Okay, okay, hotshot.”

Tobin can’t help the blush in her cheeks. She knows it’s there. She’ll blame it on the sun, even on this slightly overcast day. 

As soon as they return to playing, the physical contact continues. 

It seems to heighten as they grow more comfortable, as Christen grows more confident. 

Every touch is a blaze: Christen’s hand pushing against Tobin’s stomach, pulling on her arm, reaching for Tobin’s own hand when she loses her balance. Most are light touches, and Tobin refrains from using her own strength in response. Instead, teasing every time, as if wanting to cut through the tension before it cuts off her breathing, Tobin only mutters, “Foul,” with each brush of contact. 

It’s as Tobin’s engaging in another attack, dodging the obstacles but not quite dodging Christen, that soccer’s newest star pulls on Tobin’s t-shirt, attempting to drag her away from another shot on goal. Tobin’s quick to call out, “Foul! Foul! Ref!” as she laughs at the egregious rule-breaking from her training partner – though it does nothing to stop Christen’s tactics. 

When she gets a better purchase on the material, Christen’s able to pull Tobin closer to her, the momentum of it taking them both by surprise – closer and closer, too close. Suddenly, it’s like Tobin’s forgotten how to speak or think or breathe, the feeling of Christen’s arms locking around her distracting all of her senses. But it’s safe. Christen’s squeezing tight, rough-housing as she pulls Tobin around, but all Tobin feels is safe and happy. The physical contact is like a rush of endorphins, just as she’d promised Christen, but more, so much more. Even though her own strength far outweighs Christen’s, she doesn’t resist enough to throw her off. She lets Christen carry on until Tobin’s pulled entirely away from the ball, which rolls freely across the grass, and then watches Christen dash off to claim it. As soon as she does, she takes the open shot at goal. 

When it hits the back of the net, Christen throws her arms outstretched above her head before she turns back. Her smile. It’s enough to leave Tobin breathless and light-headed. 

But it’s not the smile, it’s the exertion. _It’s the exertion, the reps, the work_.

Maybe it’s that same lightheadedness that has Tobin falling to the ground amid the very next play. Christen's weighing up widening her stance to create a successful block and keeping her legs close together to minimize Tobin’s superpower, when Tobin, smiling to herself at Christen’s concentration, makes her move. They’re fast colliding again, up close like they had been before, except there’s too much force now, all of Tobin’s weight thrown forward at the mercy of gravity, with Christen caught up in it. 

They land. Hard. Together.

Pressed flush against each other, with a sudden thud they’re lying in the grass. 

It’s a heady rush to find herself lying over Christen, chest to chest. There’s electricity charging through her bloodstream like circuit overload. She’s humming with it, her adrenaline-charged body not knowing what to do with itself. Feeling like a livewire, Tobin’s sparking and unsteady. Too keen to check Christen landed okay, her face lifts to meet Christen’s, an exchange of smiles passing easily before the extra seconds allow for the awkwardness to set in. 

All she can hear is her own thumping heartbeat and both their breaths, quick and heavy. 

They’re close enough to kiss. The thought has Tobin’s eyes dropping to Christen’s lips before she can stop herself. It’s barely a glance. A flash. Down and up. 

When she meets Christen’s eyes again, they’re unreadable. Curious, perhaps. Curious enough to make Tobin wonder, just for a second. She’d barely need to move. Only her head. Only a little bit. And for a moment she thinks that the thumping heartbeat might not be just her own, loud and persistent between her ears. It might be more than heaving breaths that she feels against her chest. Just maybe.

But then Christen laughs lightly, briefly, like she’s letting the air out of a balloon. There’s no sound behind it, just an exhalation that makes an escaped strand of Tobin’s hair flutter where it’s hanging between them. And a smile.

And then she puts the back of her hand to her forehead and closes her eyes. 

For a moment, Tobin takes in the features of her face – so dazzling in close-up, with a sheen of sweat glistening over them. Without those green eyes pulling focus, she notices the perfectly round apples of Christen’s cheeks, the lines that bracket her smile, the baby hairs that curl at her hairline. And then they open again. 

As if in reflex, Tobin rolls off to the side, shying away. She shifts a few feet further over and they sit up beside one another, finally catching their breath, arms propped lazily over their knees. 

They share a more forced exchange of smiles before Christen gets up. Tobin goes to follow but soon realizes that Christen’s only grabbing their water bottles and, it seems, her new favorite accessory. When she turns back around, Christen’s wearing those sunglasses again, the ones that aren’t hers. Tobin can’t help think of how easy it would’ve been for Christen to go get her own pair one of these days, to casually slip back into her own life. And yet here she is, wearing those orange frames with the blue lenses that show two distorted Tobins reflected back at the real thing and Tobin’s cleats, Tobin’s shorts, Tobin’s top. They’re on each other’s team now, down to the uniform. 

As Christen settles back down on the grass in that very same spot beside Tobin, she slips the cleats right off and pulls away her socks too. Tobin watches the way she presses her bare feet to the grass, relaxing at the feel of the sun-dried grass against her skin before lying down on the ground with only her knees up. She’s gazing up at the sky, studying the scuffs of cloud marks sprawled against the blue canvas above. 

“I’m sorry you haven’t got a better training partner,” Christen says, her gaze fixed overhead. 

Tobin turns to look down at her as she replies, “I’m pretty happy with the training partner I got, to be honest.”

“Yeah?” Christen rolls her head to the side, smiling at Tobin, who can only squint to take it in. The compliment, sincere and honest, seems to draw Christen back from her distant daydreams. She leans forward to sit upright, mirroring Tobin’s position before absently reaching a hand out to pull up a daisy from the grass. 

Watching the way Christen delicately handles the flower in her hand, Tobin jokes, “Yeah, I’m just glad you went easier on me than when you were playing FIFA.”

Christen scoffs out a laugh. “I let my fearsome reputation do a lot of the work.”

“Oh yeah.”

“You think I’d have made a good defender?” 

Tobin thinks about it, remembering the way she’d lit up at her goal and thrown her hands into the air. That had been the best part, that had been the moment for the highlight reel of their day, the memory she’d want to rewind and rewind and rewind. With that picture at the front of her mind, she says, “Nah, you’d have been, like… the star striker.”

“Aww, Tobes.”

Tobin leans a little closer at the lilt of her nickname. Her teeth catching on her lip as she tries to look Christen in the eye, the reflective glasses a shield between them, Tobin asks, “You never played at all? Even as a kid?”

“My mom tried to get me to do it for… must’ve been about a year, but I was way too scared of the, umm, big rabble of kids all scrapping for the ball. And too busy making daisy chains.” Christen gestures to the flower in her hand, splitting the stem in the middle before plucking another and threading them together. 

There’s a happy silence between them as Christen continues making a little chain, Tobin’s eyes watching carefully, something soothing about the pattern of it. Something soothing about the Christen of it. Something soothing about the fact that they’re still here, together, getting to know each other. Even if some mornings Tobin wakes up on the wrong side of the bed, allowing room enough for Christen to doubt that this is what she wants, that this is the only thing making life good right now, that this is a gift every single day. 

It’s a moment of gratitude, the kind that Tobin finds herself sinking into often. It happens when she meditates, or when she takes that first bite of food that they’ve made together, or when they’re playing a game and Christen starts laughing wildly, with no control. 

And it happens now, when Christen contentedly makes a daisy chain from the side of a football field, the way she once did as a child while her mother tried to coax her onto the pitch. 

“You know, I really don’t want you to go anywhere. I’m sorry if earlier I, like, was acting like it. I was being an asshole this morning,” Tobin says, breaking the silence.

“It’s okay. You hadn’t had your coffee yet,” Christen teases, prodding Tobin’s leg with the tiptoe of her foot. “You really weren’t so bad. I only wanted to make sure you knew that, umm, anytime you want your own space back, it’s okay. I’m so grateful to have someone in all this, but I get that there are days when you might want time to yourself. I mean, it’s normal that you wouldn’t want to be with me, basically a stranger a couple months ago, 24/7.”

That _would_ make sense, Tobin accepts. It would make sense to want space from her. But she doesn’t. It’s that simple. She doesn’t want space – not really. 

And there’s also the fact that if she needs space, she does have somewhere to go. 

Since that very first time she’d gone back to her makeshift art studio, she’d continued visiting every now and again, on quiet days when Christen had been otherwise occupied – with work or family calls or books. She went back whenever she’d felt the pull of inspiration tugging at her sleeve. It had begun to come to her more readily now, the first time picking up the paintbrush again seeming to unlock – or at least unblock – her creativity. 

“You know, I, uh… I have another apartment,” Tobin confesses, looking away and fixing her gaze on some faraway tree in the distance. Tall and imposing. “I actually have this other place to go and, like, work on my art stuff. That’s where I was the other morning, when I disappeared.” 

It’s only when she’s finished explaining it that she turns back to Christen. Christen, whose smile is so full of understanding, it makes Tobin realize how much keeping this to herself had felt a little like holding her breath. The release is a relief. And there’s something more, a sensation awfully close to love curling around her heart and latching on when Christen tells her, “You know, I kind of thought something like that. Sometimes you come home with paint splatters on your clothes.” The words are so soft and quiet, Tobin feels as if Christen is handling her as delicately as the flowers in her hands. “I’m glad you have a place like that. The same four walls all the time? It’s tough. I know sometimes I have to go for a walk, or someplace new to, like, refresh my mind a little.”

“Will you come with me?” Tobin asks – pleads, almost. It comes from somewhere deeper than consciousness. 

“Come with you?” Christen’s smile accepts for her, even while she’s still asking the question.

“To the studio,” Tobin clarifies. “You wanna come make a mess with me?” 

*

The apartment’s untidier than it would’ve been if she’d planned her invitation. There are half-finished works scattered everywhere that feel like pages of her diary thrown open in plain view. Everything from abstract paintings of the female form to Tobin’s most transparent artistic expression of crushed dreams. There are so many parts of herself laid bare inside the walls of this place, and yet not one that Tobin thinks would be wholly brand new to Christen. 

Stepping inside the apartment that’s transformed into a different kind of space entirely, Christen’s quick to give herself a tour of what’s there, what’s out in the open and on display, as if meant to be seen. Perhaps only to be seen by her eyes.

Tobin hadn’t hidden anything, only because there’d never been anyone else looking here.

“It’s not much but it’s… my space to be wild and creative and whatever,” she explains, though she can’t really tell if Christen’s listening. Her friend appears to be rapt, instead, by the Olympic rings, then one of the abstract paintings Tobin had finished one afternoon on nothing more than heavyweight paper, and then the vast acrylic canvas that takes up a table in the centre of the room now – her newest work. Christen stills at that one. She looks over the smudged lines between pink and orange and green and blue and purple. “It’s not done yet,” Tobin’s quick to explain. “I’m just letting that layer dry because the paint is so, like, thick. Takes a few days.” 

Christen says nothing, only smiles. 

Biting her lip as she lingers nervously, her weight all on one foot, Tobin watches Christen take it all in: eyes big, expression inscrutable. After a long, sprawling silence that Tobin can’t bear to interrupt again, Christen turns to her and says, “Thank you for sharing this with me.” 

Tobin bows her head.

“You’re pretty incredible.” Christen says it almost like a sigh, a silence sitting heavy between them after it’s spoken. As Tobin lifts her gaze, she finds Christen’s seeking. It’s only then, as their eyes meet across the room, that Christen adds, “You know that?” with awe sunk so deep into the words, Tobin feels them with a sting. 

Somehow, a smile sneaks its way out to conceal a shudder, the line of it uneven and twisting shyly to one side, and Tobin can’t possibly look at Christen now. She can’t say anything either. _Thanks_ feels like agreement, and not enough. She didn’t bring Christen here for flattery. Though she’d relished the chance to show off on the field with the ball at her feet, everything she creates here feels different: more personal, more precious. Inside these four walls exist her deepest secrets – not dark, but rich with color. It feels like inviting Christen inside of herself, each artwork a piece of the patchwork that makes up her identity. It’s not validation she craves so much as acceptance. The compliment is uncomfortable because it makes her feel like she’d been fishing for one; she hadn’t. That’s not it. That’s not quite it. 

And yet they’re here for a reason. One that Tobin can’t quite put her finger on.

As she notices Christen’s gaze drift toward the art supplies that are lying around, she remembers her offer. “You wanna try making something?”

“I’m no good at drawing,” Christen warns as Tobin presumptuously sets off toward the kitchen, where she’s got a disorganized array of tools and materials scattered across the countertop and hidden in cupboards. Quickly, right where she’d expected them to be, she finds two 8” x 8” canvases, both blank, waiting to be transformed. 

Tobin glances up at Christen, who’s watching her carefully. “No drawing required. I promise.” 

Christen follows her lead, peering over the counter opposite Tobin, attempting to get a clue for what she’s planning. “What then?” 

“Fluid pouring,” Tobin says.

Christen looks back at her blankly. “Should I know what that is?”

“It’s, like, totally freestyle.” Tobin laughs as she finds a few paper cups, some stirring sticks and a selection of acrylics for them to use. “I swear, you’ll love it. It’s relaxing and easy, and it creates something totally unique every time.”

Christen sighs, putting her hands up as if in defence. “I’m holding you to ‘easy’.” 

But it _is_ easy. And Tobin proves it.

She quickly combines acrylic paint, pouring medium and water in each of the cups with inexact measurements of each one, her standard approach always allowing space for a little chaos to sneak into the mix. Every cup contains a different color, with Christen helping Tobin hand-pick the selection. Tobin chooses orange, then Christen chooses pink. Together, they then opt for a pearlescent alternative of each shade, with a rich gold color on the table too. 

“Are they gonna mix together?” Christen asks, watching Tobin pour in some of the paint. She’s crouching, leaning her elbows against the counter to study the method, mesmerized, until Tobin passes the stirring stick to her to finish the job. It feels a little like the reverse of the two of them in the kitchen together; this time, Tobin takes the lead.

“The medium stops the colors from mixing. So they’ll stay separate, but they create, like, cool patterns when we pour them on the canvas,” Tobin explains, finally adding two cups of white paint with the same solution and placing one in front of Christen, one in front of herself. With a pipette, she adds a couple of drops of silicon oil. 

“The white is gonna be our starting point. I’ll go first with mine and show you what to do, then you can give it a try,” Tobin suggests, before adding a little of each color to her primary cup of paint. Eventually, there’s a mix of pink, orange and gold sitting swirled at the top of it. It sinks into the center of its own accord, the bold, bright pigments of pink and orange moving through the white together, marking out a wavy, wild spiral path through the blankness.

Tobin covers over the top of her cup with the canvas before slowly rotating it so that the paint is upside down, already starting to leak onto the surface. There’s visible tension at the seams of the cup where the acrylic color is darkened by its own thickness, eager to spill out broadly across the white surface. With the canvas flat and facing up, the cup sitting flipped in the middle, Tobin lays it out on a cooling rack that she’s positioned inside a metal tray – the bottom of which is already a kaleidoscope of color, proof of previous attempts. She taps the bottom of the cup, then the sides, willing the paint to fall but never lifting to release it. 

She can feel Christen watching carefully, sensing the way her friend bends to be level with the canvas, anticipating the spill they both know is coming.

Slowly, Tobin lifts up the cup and lets it hover a couple of inches above, the thin liquid spreading out across the blank canvas. The last drips of paint keep coming, allowing Tobin to fill the last remaining hints of white, the pattern soon covering every inch of the surface, paint dripping from the rack to land in splotches on the tray. She lifts one side of the canvas up, paint staining the pads of her fingers. As she tilts it, the flow of paint distorts and redirects, paths of color rippling all over to create something spectacular. The pearlescent shades shimmer through like distant galaxies coming into range.

“The, uh, silicon oil means that you get these little cells that sort of explode into spots of color,” Tobin says, watching as it happens, pointing out a few of them as they appear like supernovas.

Christen’s eyes are bright and alive when Tobin glances up again. They sparkle like the gold of the canvas is reflecting. “That’s amazing,” she says, and it sounds certain and indisputable when she says it. Tobin can’t help but feel a swell of pride at Christen’s enthusiasm, at the eagerness on display as her friend straightens up and decides, “My turn now!” 

She chooses the same colors as Tobin in different proportions. A little more pink, the orange poured slowly into the cup in a criss-cross fashion afterward. 

“My art teacher always said I had a lot of potential but was prone to overthinking,” she recites as she picks up the pot of gold, as if reading from a page in her memory.

Watching Christen as closely as Christen had watched her, Tobin smiles to herself and replies, “No thinking required. Just feel.” 

Christen’s painting seems to come effortlessly to life, Tobin’s only guidance provided as she goes to lift her cup a little too eagerly. She grabs Christen’s hand to stop it spreading too fast and the unexpected touch seems to prompt a choke of nervous laughter, then a glance, too close-up. When Christen’s attention turns back to the canvas, she delights at the spill of acrylic colour that’s already begun spreading out to every corner. 

Watching her light up, Tobin steps back and lets her enjoy the fun of filling the gaps, of tilting the paint in each direction, of watching the cells burst just like they had for Tobin’s.

If feeling had been the method, it proves to be the outcome too. 

When it’s done, their artworks lie together on the countertop: Tobin’s on a now-stained sheet of paper, Christen’s still on the tray. Tobin can’t help but _feel_ the significance of the two paintings side by side. Both pink and orange and a little gold. Not quite the same, not quite mirrors of each other, but connected. An abstract diptych.

It’s Christen who says aloud, “They belong together.” There’s something distant about her voice, the way people talk when they’re looking up at the stars and trying to find meaning in the constellations. “Next to each other,” she adds, as if sobering from a daze. 

Tobin doesn’t dare glance at her. Christen’s smile would be too much of a risk, and there’s a smile in her voice that gives Tobin warning. She can’t look. But as she continues staring down at the two paintings they’ve created together, she feels Christen shift toward her and then slump onto her shoulder. It’s startlingly close, the intimacy both physical and not. 

“Thanks for bringing out the artist in me, Tobes,” she says, so softly it’s little more than a mumble. Her breath ghosts over the skin of Tobin’s neck.

Her voice coming out low and scratching, Tobin asks, “You had fun?”

“Of course. This place is so cool, and so, umm… _you_.” Christen lets that sit, dressed up like a compliment, loaded with meanings and questions, and then she lifts her head from Tobin’s shoulder and steps away. The tension between them goes slack again, and Tobin has to stop herself from noticeably rolling her shoulders in its release. She only sighs out quietly, steadying her breath, as Christen cheerfully says, “You know, I might tell some of my colleagues about this kind of art because I feel like it ties into some of our initiatives around mindfulness.”

“You’re not gonna tell them to get out and try soccer practice?” Tobin jokes.

Christen stops short of rolling her eyes, but there’s a fond irritation in her voice as she replies, “I’m not sure everyone’s got a World Cup champion hanging around to show off for them.”

“Oh, I could show you what showing off looks like,” Tobin argues. “That was nothing.”

“I can believe it,” Christen concedes, moving towards the sink as she studies the marks on her hands, smudged stains of acrylic paint sinking into the skin at her fingertips, half-dry already. 

With the back of her hand, Christen turns the faucet on and puts her pink and orange fingers beneath the water, reaching for the soap once the worst of it has fallen away. Tobin follows suit, putting her hands under at the same time, pushing Christen’s out of the way playfully. 

“You’re such a child,” Christen argues as Tobin chuckles, responding only by flicking a splash in Christen’s direction. 

As they dry their hands after, Tobin catches sight of the cheap clock she keeps hung on the wall. It had only taken a few long days using the apartment as her makeshift studio for her to realize the way this place plays with time, sand falling through the hourglass at double speed somehow as she paints and draws and cuts and makes. As if existing inside a different dimension, the rules of time are different here, afternoon wearing the same guise as morning with nothing to warn her that one had changed into the other. The minutes disappear at will until there’s nothing of the day left for her to salvage. Some ideas come to life with such fury, it’s like Tobin’s emerging from a dream when she’s done. Hence the clock. It never helps too much, typically. But the intention’s there. Predictably, it’s later than she’d realized; not as late as previous days had gone, but late enough. 

“Hey, I’m gonna do a call with Pinoe in, like, an hour,” she remembers only then, feeling a pang of disappointment at the thought of this oddly perfect day being disrupted by a new person. Things had been so strained after her call with Allie, the memory is still an uncomfortable one. She’d dodged and deflected on the topic of Christen for days after, and reiterated her excuses to Christen until she’d grown tired of it. It needn’t have been uncomfortable at all, and this needn’t be either, Tobin thinks, recognizing how easy it is to say, “But you wanna hang with us?” 

“As in _Megan_ Rapinoe?” her friend clarifies, her eyes blowing a little wide. 

Tobin laughs. “Yeah.” 

Clearly attempting to recover her composure, Christen cools her response to a casual, “Yeah, I guess I could do that.”

“Are you gonna lose your shit?” Tobin can’t help but laugh at the barely-suppressed excitement that Christen reveals with the number of nods she gives in response.

“Tobin, she’s like… the people’s president.” Christen defends herself against Tobin’s teasing, before her thoughts seem to get away from her. “Does she still have the pink hair?”

Tobin sets off to lead them out of the room, replying over her shoulder. “I honestly don’t know what color it is at this point, but it’ll probably be some crazy shade of Pinoe.” 

“Hey, Tobes?” Christen stops her with a hand to her arm. “Are you sure? About me joining you? I know you didn’t want that at all with your other friend and I could hang in my room, or go upstairs–”

“I’m sure,” Tobin realizes only now, the ground steady and solid beneath her. She smiles, a full, beaming smile that belongs only to Christen – a gift of total assurance. “I promise.” 

*

Back home, they decide to multi-task making dinner and catching up with Pinoe since it’s already getting late on East Coast time. Tobin starts chopping tomatoes between intermittent texts from a predictably distracted Pinoe, while Christen does the lion’s share of the cooking. She’d insisted on trying the famed Cindy Heath bolognese recipe that had been Tobin’s comfort food early on in quarantine – the pasta that had brought them together all those weeks ago. 

With Tobin’s mom’s recipe as their blueprint, they set about assembling the kind of meal Tobin misses most from the world before quarantine: hearty, rich and classic. The sort of dinner that gathers everyone around a table. It’s a family staple, a taste of home. Tonight, though, it quickly transforms into something else, pieces of Christen seeping into the mix – a little dash of her favored Worcestershire sauce, more garlic than Tobin’s used to. Without her sisters there to complain about it, Tobin also finds herself free to throw mushrooms in too. 

They put only a few small twists on the traditional Heath bolognese, but Tobin feels as if they are starting a tradition of their own, concocting a new recipe together. There’s something comforting inside that thought, in the way a recipe that has been passed down through her family, evolving as it travels along each branch of the tree, becomes something new between the two of them. 

It’s a shared taste for the same flavors. Personal, in the way that food can be sometimes.

Once they have the sauce simmering on low heat, cooking steadily in the background as the recipe demands, they try to prop Tobin’s phone against a box, ready for Pinoe’s call. Christen pours them a glass of red wine each as Tobin watches the screen expectantly until it lights up. In the corner of her eye, she catches Christen take a big gulp of Malbec and suppresses a laugh. 

“Hello, hello,” Pinoe starts, before a moment of panic: “Is it working? It’s working.” 

“You good, P?” Tobin asks. “How you been?”

“Tobes! Okay, well, I’m losing my goddamn mind but it’s all good. Trying to practice in this is, like, a whole freaking mess right now and–” She cuts off as Tobin tilts the camera so that Christen comes into view, Pinoe’s face transforming into a question, then recovering to a smile. “You breaking Q, Tobes? Who you got there?”

“This is Christen. She’s my, like, uh, quarantine buddy. Decided to team up to make it through,” Tobin explains, this time breezily – at ease with Pinoe knowing it, because for all that she might dread the inevitable rumors (that Allie’s probably already started swirling), she’s excited at the prospect of introducing her two friends. It’s funny how easy it all feels, in the end. 

“Hi Megan,” Christen says sweetly, waving in the background as she comes back.

“Well, Christen’s a freaking _stunner_ ,” Pinoe replies, sounding ever so slightly outraged by it, while Christen beams at Tobin like she doesn’t quite know what to do with that assessment. Doubling down, Pinoe looks past the camera lens to call out, “Sue, Tobes got a quarantine friend and she’s like a model!” 

“She’s also a big Megan Rapinoe fan,” Tobin tells her, an attempt to change the subject, but also to tease Christen – who shoots her a sharp look, clearly affronted by the betrayal as the blush in her cheeks deepens. Tobin’s quick to reassure her, “You can say it. She lives for the attention, don’t you, P?”

“Who, me?” Pinoe plays coy, theatrically touching her hair. 

“Okay, well, umm, I really thought the way you handled everything last year was incredible. You spoke so eloquently and came across so informed every time you were put on the spot, and I just think it’s, umm, really important work that you’re doing,” Christen can’t seem to help but gush as she leans forward, getting closer to the screen. Tobin smiles, glancing from Christen to Pinoe to watch as the praise settles over her old friend’s demeanor. There’s a little part of her sparkling inside, happy that she could do this for Christen and that it evidently means as much as she’d thought it might. “I just wanted to say that. Tobin can make fun of me again now. She’s only mad because she thinks she should be my favorite.”

Tobin sinks down to rest her chin on Christen’s shoulder in front of where the phone is positioned. “I’m just saying,” Tobin defends herself, “that if you’re eating my mom’s famed spaghetti bolognese recipe for dinner tonight, shouldn’t it be me that you gush over?” 

“Your mom’s recipe that _I’m_ cooking?” Christen corrects her.

“I’m cooking too!” Tobin argues, gesturing to the bowl of parmesan she’d been halfway through grating. 

“No, you’re not.” Christen nudges her out of the way and picks up the abandoned cheese grater next to it, finishing the job for Tobin.

“She doesn’t like it when I help,” Tobin says directly to camera, laughing, shooting a glance in Christen’s direction to receive the scowl she knows to expect. 

“It’s not that I don’t want your help!” Christen argues, fully aware that she’s being goaded but unable to get away from it. Maybe she doesn’t want to get away from it. “I just… I wanted you to be able to chill with Megan. You don’t even like cooking.”

Tobin can’t argue with it, not when she knows she’s said as much herself. She can’t point out that it’s different now, even as her heart pounds and her head pleads, _it’s different with you_. 

“I gave Sue food poisoning the other day,” Pinoe chimes in, her face grimacing tight as Sue comes into frame to nod. 

“She actually did,” she says. “Hey Tobin.”

“I can cook. I’m a good cook,” Tobin protests, fully aware of the lie but determined not to be lumped in together with Pinoe on that score. She’s comforted quickly by Christen’s hand on her forearm, gentle and reassuring, despite the fact that they’re on opposing sides now.

Christen pauses her cheese-grating to say, “No, I know. But I like cooking for you is all.”

And what can she say to that? She looks ahead, looks decidedly away from Christen and at the phone, the phone where Pinoe’s got her lips pursed together and her eyebrows raised but she’s saying nothing. Her expression is like a cartoon character, Tobin thinks, and then she notices her own face visible on the screen. She can see the way she blushes, the tint of red blemishing her cheeks in the tiny self-reflecting window of the video call. 

Mercifully, thanks to an interruption from Sue, they soon skirt away from the subject and onto the topic of training – or the lack thereof. The conversation flows easily from there, with Pinoe and Sue regaling them with stories of their attempts on the court or on the field before Tobin counters with an account of her earlier training session with Christen. It’s lively enough that Christen, perhaps a little starstruck, hangs back quietly, finding culinary tasks to occupy herself with, unnoticed at first. But only briefly. It’s not long before Pinoe draws her back with direct questions and comments that invite her in, that make her feel welcome and relaxed. Within only a few minutes, she’s totally at ease with the rest of them, trading anecdotes with Sue about their common soccer failures as Tobin and Pinoe fill their pauses with laughter and reassurance. 

It’s as Pinoe puts a lazy arm around her girlfriend’s shoulders and kisses her cheek out of gratitude that Tobin is able to make sense of the tightening in her chest she feels once again: yearning. She wants to do it, to complete the mirroring that’s been happening the whole conversation. There is Sue and Pinoe and their domesticity, the way they move about their home and banter back and forth, so easy and natural after more than three years together. And there is Tobin and Christen. The same, somehow. Except now. Except Tobin can’t put her arm around Christen as Pinoe does; she can’t even look at her until her teammate eases off, until they’re back to lighthearted fallings out over the Peloton. 

As soon as the bolognese sauce is ready, they sign off their call with Pinoe and Sue, who already seem to be drifting toward sleep, and head into the lounge. Garlic-scented steam rising from their newly-made recipe, Tobin carries both bowls as Christen eagerly heads for the remote to set up their movie. 

It’s as she’s settling herself against the cushions of the couch that Tobin sees her phone light up with a text. Pinoe. All it says is, “ _She’s perfect_.”

Tobin’s breath catches as she looks down at it.

She clicks the screen to black and hides the phone away by her feet, turning her attention back to perfect Christen, whose brow is almost comically furrowed as she scans through the options in search of something specific. Tobin hadn’t thought much more about their romcom conversation, so it’s only now that she remembers it’ll be Christen’s undemocratic choice of entertainment for the evening. Christen’s choice of some romantic story that Tobin will have to endure, all the while simmering in her own undefined, unresolved feelings. 

Tobin sneaks a forkful of spaghetti bolognese while Christen’s looking away. Her mom always told her to wait for everyone to be ready, but what Christen doesn’t know can’t hurt her. Besides, she’s hungry. They worked up quite an appetite between the training session and the painting and the cooking. 

Christen hits down on a remote button before twisting around, her lips pulling to one side as soon as she looks at Tobin. “You got a little…” She points to the corner of her mouth and Tobin takes the cue to wipe her own, making sure to look plenty guilty. “Okay, so for tonight, I thought we’d watch _Bend It Like Beckham_.” She says it with such enthusiasm, it’s like she thinks Tobin’s going to cheer the selection. 

Instead, Tobin sighs and says, “Okay.” 

“You’ve seen it before?” Christen asks, plainly a little defeated by the lack of enthusiasm.

“Umm, maybe. I can’t really remember. Probably.” Tobin shrugs, shifting to make room for Christen before she squeezes right into the corner of the L-shaped couch, her legs outstretched one way and Tobin close on the other side. 

“Well, gee, I’m loving the enthusiasm here, Tobes.” She needles her with an elbow to the side.

“Come on, grumpy. I’m here, I’m not complaining. Let’s watch your movie,” Tobin rallies her, picking up the bowl of pasta from the coffee table and passing it to Christen, along with cutlery. Next, she resettles herself and puts her feet up on the edge of the table.

It’s nearly two hours before they say another word, engrossed first in their dinner and then the movie. They’ve sunk closer together against the sofa cushions in the meantime, Tobin’s head hovering dangerously close to Christen’s shoulder without her even noticing. 

“I thought this was gonna have a romance in it, obviously, but not with him,” Christen comments bitterly as the credits roll, and Tobin’s laughing it off before she understands exactly what Christen means. “I thought the two girls were gonna get together. I mean, it was good, don’t get me wrong, and I loved a lot of it but… oh, god, I’m rambling. What did you think?” 

Tobin’s a little surprised at being asked. She’s also still processing the implications of Christen’s review – her disapproval at the lack of lesbian content ringing a rather large bell inside Tobin’s head. She wants not to read into it. She wants to dismiss the commentary as just that, nothing further. But a part of her can’t help but cling to it and wonder. And all she can verbalize, with a thousand very urgent questions about Christen running through her mind, is, “I, uh… yeah, I agree with what you were saying.” 

“It’s from, like, the mid-2000s, right? I guess I’m not surprised,” Christen carries on, huffing a little, oblivious to Tobin’s inner monologue. Oblivious even to the way she’s being stared at intently. 

“You think it would be gay if they made it now?” Tobin manages to ask, forcing her attention from Christen back to the TV that’s lit up now with a menu of further recommendations. 

“I…” Christen thinks about it and tilts her head to one side. “Maybe. I want to hope,” she says so wistfully that Tobin feels a pang in her chest. She too wants to hope. 

Hope that she’s not reading too much into all of this, every second of their day together.

Hope that she can make this perfect day last a little longer.

Hope that she might get another just like it.

Hope...

Tobin doesn’t know at what point she drifts off, only feels herself start to doze, the details around her growing hazier, the sharpness of her vision fading, and the warm body beside her getting cozier. She drifts off on the scent of Christen’s floral perfume, her head resting heavy against Christen’s shoulder – that’s the last thing she remembers. But when the initial crash of deep sleep wears off and she grows half-conscious again, she realizes her pillow is softer than the bone of a shoulder and there’s a gentle rise and fall beneath her head.

They’re stretched across the two sides of the sofa, crossed at the corner of the L. Tobin’s head burrows against the soft cushion of Christen’s stomach, Christen’s hand resting lightly in her hair while the other lies limp under Tobin’s. 

When Tobin stirs enough to realize it – at least distantly, at least in a hazy, muffled dream-like sense – she only turns her head so that her nose brushes against Christen’s chest, smiling to herself contentedly. She makes no move to leave, no effort to go to bed.

It is in this in-between half-sleep that Tobin first accepts the early bloom of love brimming within herself. Their fingers twined together as if reaching out to find each other even in sleep, Tobin stirs, dreaming, thinking, _you_ , _it’s you_ , and lets herself fall back under that comforting spell.

Love is found there first, in a liminal space that exists without inhibition and doubt and neuroses. Love, unquestioned and undefined in her unconscious.

It’s a tether from Tobin to Christen, the soft, even breaths of love drawing her back to sleep. 

They stay like that all night, only waking when the bright morning sun breaks through the curtains.


	7. Chapter 7

Tobin wakes up alone, curled around one of the cushions, lying beside an indentation in the couch that marks out the shape of someone else. Bleary-eyed, she glances about the room for any sign of Christen, feeling a vague, racing panic at her absence. It’s funny, she thinks, the way you only notice someone taking up space inside yourself when they go, when there’s a cold breeze blowing into the hollow. Funny, and not funny at all. Scary, instead. Scary enough that the fear dries your mouth out. A low level panic and then–

It settles quickly as Tobin catches sight of Christen through the glass balcony door. She’s sitting in her chair, serene beneath the morning sun. She’s got a coffee in her hand, resting its base on her knee, with her head held back against the window and her eyes closed.

There’s distance between them now. A layer of glass. Enough room to breathe.

Tobin takes that breath, long and steady.

When she exhales, she watches Christen’s eyes open and instantly find hers. It’s as if she can feel Tobin’s gaze on her skin – a dangerous thought. And just like that, there’s no distance at all. The dust that lingers from sleep illuminates in the morning light, dancing like fireflies between them. Tobin sees it now, the vague outline of a dream or something like it, a silhouette taking shape in the shadows of her mind, a fizzing feeling simmering at its edges. She stops just shy of remembering; the echo has lost all clear diction, the picture caught behind a veil. The details are lost, but the dust of that earth-shaking, half-sleeping realization is undeniable.

The rest of the day, Tobin does her best to ignore it, to instead focus on training and emails about the lawsuit and another episode of _The Last Dance_. But it’s there in the air, something new and different, glittering every now and then as it catches the light. 

There are little half-moments bubbling with possibility, as there have been for weeks now. Building and building and building, like the walls that’ve been coming up around them since the start, forming a fortress of possibility and connection and profound friendship. The kind that locks everyone else out – without any hope of a spare key. 

Those glimmers are dots she refuses to connect. The picture forms anyway, the week that follows a masterpiece of pointillism. A portrait without a brush. Stippling, instead, one memory at a time.

Saturday brings Christen pleading for Tobin to join her for another yoga class, the two of them twisting into the same positions and sneaking coy glances from one mat to the other. Tobin catches Christen’s eye only a couple of times, each flicker of a look more heart-stopping than the last. Her own gaze is more fixed, under the guise of learning the poses, her attempts to imitate each position hit and miss, but it allows her eyes to linger on the line of Christen’s body: slim, toned, pert. 

If she misses a couple of cues as a result, so be it. 

Sunday follows with a funny little game they make up together, after Tobin’s spent half the morning whistling away on the Peloton. Testing the limits of her talent, Christen tries to identify the tune – Rihanna, then Bob Marley, then an early Taylor Swift song that comes into her head as the perfect way to break Christen’s streak. Tobin doesn’t manage it. 

Instead, they carry on, swallowing up the afternoon whole with it, hours filled with Christen’s laughter. It coats every word: song titles, Tobin’s names and nicknames, her protests. 

“I’m getting worse at this!” she insists as their game continues, while Tobin argues back, “It was your idea!” 

Their game ends only when they fall asleep, letting the day fold into the next. And then it’s Monday, and the morning brings with it a package addressed to a Miss Christen Press. Tobin, ever the toddler at heart, giddily prods and pokes it before handing it over, only for Christen to say, “It’s actually for you,” before insisting Tobin be the one to open it. When she does, the package reveals a tie-dye set. Pink, orange, blue and yellow dyes included, along with a few blank white items of clothing set to be their canvases. 

“It’s a surprise for you. I thought we could make some cool tie-dye together,” she explains, the words shy now as perhaps Tobin’s muted response has made her doubt herself. 

“That sounds awesome,” Tobin thinks aloud as she throws a loose arm over Christen’s shoulders, attempting to play it off coolly – as if it doesn’t make her heart hammer in her chest, as if it doesn’t make her breath catch in her throat. “I feel like my birthday’s come early,” she mentions without thinking. “I love it.”

“Is your birthday soon then?” Christen asks, taking the packaging from Tobin to place it in the recycling bin. 

“Uh,” Tobin hedges, half-distracted by her new toy. “Kinda. I guess so.”

“Well?” Christen pushes, absently flattening the cardboard box at the same time.

“Like, end of May. The 29th.” 

“Tobes!” Christen chastises her, stopping in her tracks to give Tobin a faux-stern look. “You just weren’t gonna mention it?” 

Tobin shrugs innocently, avoiding eye contact at first, like a kid who got caught with their hand in a cookie jar. “Probably not. Anyway, it’s cool. You already got me a present!” she points out, holding up the box like she’s lifting a trophy. 

Christen rolls her eyes, but smiles. “I gotta get a better present than that.”

“No, no, seriously. Don’t. I don’t need anything, okay?” Tobin fixes her face up with a smile, then adds: “Well, nothing you can buy me, anyway.” 

Edging closer to Tobin, Christen gently pushes: “What would you want… if you could have anything?” 

Tobin holds her gaze, studying the intent curiosity in her expression without really knowing how to satisfy it. “I don’t really care about anything. I guess… I’d just want my family, you know?” She lets out a long, heavy breath. “Like, I guess that’s what anyone would say.” She shrugs, then refocuses on the thrilling tie-dye set laid out in front of her and decides to ponder the projects she can make, instead of all that she doesn’t have.

That’s how they end up spending a day in the art studio, transforming every white item of clothing (stopping just short of Tobin’s jerseys) that they can find into a colorful wonder. That’s how their hands find each other in the same tub of water, squeezing at a hoodie as they rinse it dry together with their touch brushing. That’s how they end up messing around with a home fashion show, on an unsuspecting Tuesday night after everything’s dried out, to exhibit each of their masterpieces, playing around in the lounge with EDM in the background for effect, as Christen does her best strut and Tobin rates their efforts from the couch. She tries not to read too much into the air-blown kisses that follow each spin. 

When Wednesday comes, it’s unremarkable until it isn’t. It’s like every morning they spend sitting at the same table with two laptops, bluelight reflecting on their glasses and expressions mostly hidden by the corners of their screens. They’re both busy with inboxes full of problems and questions that would usually cause Tobin to just sigh, slam the laptop shut and head to the field. But she’s sat with Christen, drinking coffee that’s been made for her without her having asked for it, and the sunlight is warm on her skin. 

So, she stays. 

And instead of the breaks for ball juggling or a spin out on the board or a Mario Kart race against strangers, she has Christen. To look at. To smile at. To pull faces at. 

Christen gives the same in return, peeking over the computer for a brief second to roll her eyes or contort her beautiful features into something wilder. She’s still beautiful, though. _She could never not be beautiful_ , Tobin thinks wistfully, even as she sniggers at the sight. The instinct to allow a lovelorn sigh fights against the amusement of the moment. And then Christen’s expression retreats back to joy, back to Christen, back to her great big smile. The one that could light all of Portland if the power went out. 

It’s with a sudden jolt of consciousness that straightens her back, the feeling zipping down her spine like she’s electric, that Tobin _remembers_. It’s more than a silhouette now; it’s a full picture in a gold gilded frame. She remembers the vivid, urgent realization that had first floated up in sleep. She remembers it and accepts it again all at once – as Christen’s smile lingers warmly, oblivious to what is now dawning on Tobin with an almost violent immediacy: _I don’t want her to go. Not ever._

Tobin’s so overwhelmed by want and fear mixed together, an emotional cocktail sharper than anything she’s ever tasted before, she can’t look away. Not even when Christen glances back down at her screen, her brow furrowing as she reads the words in front of her.

Tobin’s chest hurts.

Her eyes sting.

She swallows to ease the tightness in her throat but it does nothing.

Christen glances up again to meet Tobin’s eyes and it’s funny, the way she doesn’t know a thing. A part of Tobin expects Christen to see through her, to be able to read the words that are screaming in her head. Christen only smiles briefly, a slanted, tired thing, barely anything at all. 

Tobin can’t help but think of how much she wants to kiss away that smile, to tuck escaping wisps of hair behind her ear, to kiss the nape of her neck, below where tight springs of dark brown pool loose from her ponytail, above the hard protruding bone of her spine: that spot where her hand goes as she leans over her laptop, stressed, or right before she says she’s going to bed, stretching her back cat-like as she yawns through the words. Tobin wants to softly press her lips just above the neckline of Christen’s t-shirt, the one that was Tobin’s once.

It comes in a flood. 

She wants to rub the pad of her thumb across the apple of Christen’s cheek, not as a prelude to a kiss, but as a gesture entirely of its own. The rest of her hand against the curve of Christen’s neck, she just wants to hold her face up and look. Look for as long as she’s allowed. And be allowed.

She wants to press her forehead to the back of Christen’s shoulder, to lean her weight against Christen for no reason at all but that she can. The kind of affection that says nothing more than _I’m here_. She wants to kiss love between her shoulder blades, so lightly Christen might not even notice but for the heat of their proximity. 

As Christen adjusts her screen just a little to avoid the glare of the sun, Tobin notices the thin glimmering rings on each of Christen’s fingers: delicate and shining. She imagines the cool gold against her touch, the way they’d feel brushing against her own hands. She wants to cover Christen’s palm with her own and slide her fingers between each ring, settling their joined hands together against the table like there’s nothing extraordinary about it. 

She doesn’t know if she’s ever wanted anything more than she wants Christen.

In no type of way in particular. Simply, in every way. 

She just wants her. In her life, in her home, in her bed. And it’s becoming harder and harder to shy away from that. The longer they stay together, alone in this apartment feeling like the last two people on earth, the more it intensifies. Any excuse in her mind that it’s just about a desire for company is undone by the simple truth that no one else will do. 

They finish their working day in separate rooms, the air too stifling for Tobin to take a breath. And when Thursday follows, she needs desperately to get out. Out of that tiny apartment that had always felt big before, the self-made cage she’s caught herself in. Parole for a day. 

So, she suggests driving to the coast. An adventure. 

Christen lights up, her phone lighting up too as she insists, “I’m gonna make the perfect playlist for us!” as if it’s not supposed to feel like teenagers swapping mixtapes to express the feelings they can’t yet name. 

Before long, Tobin’s driving toward the ocean with its namesake, Frank, playing as Christen’s head bobs along in the passenger seat.

They drive and drive, and the journey spent trapped inside the confines of the car is sure to outlast the hours they spend in the fresh air, but it’s something different at least. And when they reach her favorite trail, the one it feels like nobody else knows, they hike till they can see the water. 

Tobin wears her camera around her neck through every step, feeling grateful for it every time they discover something new or something old and Christen smiles like it’s buried treasure. Her friend seems to come alive in the surroundings, rejuvenated by the sights and sounds of nature after weeks trapped inside the apartment. There are snapshots along the path: curious trees bending and curving like they’re yearning to reach out for each other, flowers blooming summer colour amid lush green monochrome, butterflies fluttering by in search of a place to land. But when the space opens out, a sprawling coastline as far as the eye can see, the only thing left in focus is Christen. 

As Tobin takes a picture of Christen stepping towards the shore, bare feet sinking into wet sand turned that dark brown that marks out the line between land and sea, she feels ever more conscious of the line they’re walking, too. Dark curls blow into Christen’s face as she greets the ocean with her toes and Tobin watches through the viewfinder of the camera. Christen’s curls are particularly tight today, coiled even as the wind whips through them wildly, Tobin notices. They dance around like they, too, are celebrating their freedom, a halo around Christen’s head, until she absently sweeps them up into a handheld ponytail, turning back to Tobin, the look a question – nothing more than, _Tobin?_

Tobin moves the camera down, letting it hang loose at her neck once again. She steps forward then, letting her own feet sink into slick, squelching sand on a footstep-trailed path to the water. 

She stands looking straight ahead, cold water lapping at her ankles, ignoring the trace of reflection in front of her, instead disappearing into her thoughts. She thinks about football, the bone-deep ache that calls to it. To the beauty of a wonder goal. To the raw, ugly grind of a close match, battled to the end. She misses it all. Perhaps the grind, the way it pushes you to the very limits and forces out every last glimmer of belief, is the part she misses most. It aches. It sits alongside the shiny, new ache for something else entirely. And that something new is what she lands upon, eventually, the proximity of Christen at her side intensifying the feeling it provokes, the kind that makes her want to get caught in the water’s tide. She just wants to get swept up in it. 

She isn’t looking when Christen’s index finger gently brushes against the side of her hand. 

In Tobin’s periphery, she can see Christen looking straight ahead, not glancing down at the wayward finger that’s bridged the gap between them. She’s impassive, giving nothing away; it makes it seem impossible that she can be actively reaching out just out of sight. There isn’t a trace of it in her expression as far as Tobin can tell. Instead, Tobin decides that it’s a single autonomous digit in control of itself, the black sheep of her left hand. That gentle finger teases rather than touches, the contact like a bolt of electricity even so. That’s how she knows she’s not imagining it, that it’s not the brush of the wind but the spark of, _oh_ , love.

And as if to confirm it, as if magically hearing Tobin’s thoughts, Christen slides her hand into Tobin’s and holds, squeezes, locks. It feels strong enough to withstand any tide. It’s as if Christen can sense the ache that’s nagging inside her: for football, for her life, for all the freedoms they once took for granted. But, more than anything now, for Christen herself. 

*

Pinoe calls out of the blue the day after their trip to the coast, as if Tobin’s whirring brain sends some kind of radio signal out across the country, the entire distance west to east. Christen’s out on a supply run for essential food items and, more indulgently, ingredients for another batch of brownies, and Tobin’s fresh from finishing a workout. Anything to distract herself. She had pedalled the Peloton so hard, she’d practically taken off on the stationary bike. 

Still out of breath, she answers the Facetime call with a short, sharp, “Hey, P.”

“Bad time?” Pinoe asks, the question lilting in amusement as Tobin gasps for air. She looks far more relaxed than Tobin, cozied up on the sofa in designer sweats, the last traces of pink now fading from her hair, a packet of Jolly Ranchers lying on her chest. “You on your own?” 

“S’fine,” Tobin insists, voice low, before taking a swig of water with the other hand. “Just finished on the bike. Chris is running some errands. What’s up?”

There’s a soft smile on Pinoe’s face as she replies, “Just missing ya, Tobes. Checking in.” 

Tobin eyes her suspiciously, watching as Pinoe drops another candy in her mouth. “Mm. Don’t you have, like, a, umm... an Instagram Live you could be doing?”

Pushing the Jolly Rancher to the side of her mouth so that it sticks in her cheek, Pinoe makes a dismissive _pfft_ noise. “Quit changing the subject. I wanna know what’s going down in Toby town. Gimme the scoop. Come on. You know I’m good for a secret.” 

Even as Tobin towels off the sweat on her face, she can feel her palms getting clammy all over again. And it’s not that she doesn’t trust Pinoe, it’s not that she’s not grateful for a confidante, it’s that, _fuck_ , can it really be so obvious? “What–what are you hinting at?”

“Oh, come on!” Pinoe scoffs, shifting to sit up a little more.

“Why do you think there’s, like, a secret?” Tobin asks, awkward and mumbling, no longer looking at the camera or Pinoe’s imploring expression as she walks through to the lounge. When she gets there, she lets herself collapse onto her own couch, propping her feet up on the edge of the coffee table and leaning her head back against the line of the sofa. It’s a conversation to be sitting down for, Tobin can tell already, heaving out a sigh at the inevitability of her confession. 

And it’s not Pinoe’s eyes, unabashedly curious and craving gossip, but the softness of her voice that breaks down Tobin’s defences so quickly and completely. It’s the generous gentleness of, “Because you look at her like nothing I’ve ever seen, Tobes.” Tobin’s eyes widen in alarm but Pinoe catches her. “She won’t notice it. It’s only obvious because I’ve known you literally forever. You just aren’t… really like that, around anyone. You’ve always been cool as a cucumber, but it doesn’t seem like it’s like that with her.” Pinoe shrugs, as if it’s so simple. As if the case rests. “So, come on, what’s the deal? Where are things at with you guys?” 

Tobin just shakes her head, hiding her blush in the motion. Her hair comes loose with it, so she pulls the tie free. “Have you been waiting to ask me this since you met her?” 

“Of fucking course I have.”

The laugh Tobin lets out is a sad and empty one, a wry puff of air, all good humor drained out of her. Because the fear outweighs the funny. And it _is_ funny. Funny that she finally met someone and now they’re the only one she can meet at all, funny that she ignored the glaring signposts along the way, funny that she’s been the architect of her own undoing all along. “P,” she sighs, roughly pushing her hair back before flipping the parting from one side to the other. “I’m… I’m fucked here.” 

Pinoe lets out a great big laugh laced with warmth like only she can, and then replies, “You’re really not, but proceed.” She takes another Jolly Rancher out of the pack and twists the plastic wrapper at both ends. 

“I’ve practically, like, asked this woman to move in with me because we’re, like, friends, and now I’m... fuck. I’m, like, having feelings for her, I’m pretty sure. And it sounds like that’s, like… obvious.” Tobin hides her face away behind both hands, letting her hair fall down over it too, out of place strands making their break for freedom. She doesn’t need to see Pinoe’s reaction to know exactly the face she’s pulling. 

“Tobes,” she hears, firm but calming, garbled only a little by hard candy. “Tobes, this is the woman previously referred to as ‘hot yoga girl’, right?” 

“Yeah,” she practically groans, reminding herself never to tell Allie anything ever again. Her gaze is too caught up in picking out loose hairs caught in the elastic of her hair tie to look Pinoe in the eye. 

“Do you think maybe the signs were there? Couple red flags?”

Tobin looks up again, ready to offer her riposte: “Okay, so she’s hot. But we’re friends. And she’s, like, really cool and fun to hang out with.” She’s already shaking her head by the time she’s done, dismissing her own argument before Pinoe can say a word. 

Softly, softly, as if wanting to go easy on her friend, Pinoe says, “So, can you just wait it out? I mean, my advice is probably don’t say anything while you’re in a confined space together with no end in sight.”

Dryly, Tobin replies, “Thank you for that, P.”

“You’re so welcome,” she teases back. 

“I’m obviously not gonna say anything,” Tobin accepts, the certainty of it floating up from her subconscious, because, in truth, it hadn’t been that obvious to her until now. She allows a deep, admittedly lovelorn sigh to wash over every other emotion, sweeping the threat of tears away until she can add, almost casually, “It’s just, like, really intense right now. She’s been doing yoga in the lounge, and then we were cooking and she was, like, feeding me, and she got me tie-dye stuff so we could do that to take our mind off things. I don’t know. You know when someone’s nice to you and it just gets, like, overwhelming?” 

“Oh my god. She likes you.”

“What?” Tobin scoffs, her free hand folding over her face like the cover of a book closing. 

“She totally likes you back. Listen to what you just said and tell me I’m wrong. She’s showing off her cute yoga butt in front of you, and flirting with the food, and… and coming up with cute li’l dates for you two.” Pinoe throws her hands up in the air, like it’s undeniable. “I’m telling you, Tobes. You’re a catch and it sure seems like someone’s noticed.”

Tobin’s heart repeating Pinoe’s words like a rousing refrain, she wonders at the notion. Each moment plays back with a question mark hanging where there had once only been her own self-consciousness. 

“Maybe you should say something, if you’re so deep in it already,” Pinoe suggests, her bottom lip pushed up as her eyebrows rise, considering the idea. 

“Right, but, like, that could just make her uncomfortable. What if she wants to leave?” 

Pinoe laughs ever so slightly, a chime of amusement but nothing more. “What, and go all the way back upstairs?” 

Tobin rolls her eyes. 

“Tobes, I’m thinking she’s either crushing on you or she’s about to start crushing, just as soon as you tell her. It’s not like you’re hard on the eyes, and she clearly adores you in some kinda way – as she fuckin’ should, FYI. Saw that for myself,” Pinoe adds a little quieter, the corner in her mouth quirking up. “And I mean…” 

“What?”

“Nothing. It’s just…” Pinoe rolls her eyes dramatically. “I mean, all I was gonna say is… you know the effect you have on women, right? Because it’s not like you have any trouble in that area–”

“P!” Tobin protests, cutting her friend off. 

“No, I’m just saying!”

“P!”

“What, you don’t notice the way women trip up their words every time they talk to you?” Her eyebrows are raised even higher now, as if to challenge Tobin to argue the point. “You think I get that? I don’t! My fans use their fucking words, okay. Yours are just out there staring at you like they’ve forgotten their own goddamn name.” 

“Please stop,” Tobin continues pleading. 

Pinoe’s about to start again when Tobin hears the hard, grinding drag of the key turning in the door, sitting up straight in reflex. Her head turns sharply towards it to see Christen with an armful of bags. “One sec,” she says to Pinoe, before running over to help carry everything to the kitchen while Christen catches the door before it bangs, closing it behind them. “I’m just talking to P,” Tobin explains, prompting Christen to brighten. 

“Hey Megan!” Christen calls across the room to where Tobin’s phone lies abandoned on the couch. It’s so dorky, Tobin feels a squeeze in her chest, and then Christen seems to realize it, blushing, busying herself with unbagging the groceries. 

When Tobin goes back to pick the phone up again, she finds Pinoe in much the same position as before, but there’s a little added twinkle in her eye. Her own expression stares down the lens of the camera firmly pleading _don’t say a word_ , loud and clear, though Tobin knows she can trust Pinoe – no matter how much her teammate loves to tease. “Okay, I’m gonna sign off and let you get back to whatever it is you were doing,” Tobin says. “You gotta have some press to do or something?” 

“No, I’m, uh, chatting to Molly about the lawsuit later. I think me and Sourbuns are gonna get up to speed a little bit, see what’s happening, but nothing else on my schedule,” Pinoe explains, sliding effortlessly back into casual conversation without giving away any hint of their previous topic. 

“Wait, let me say hi!” Christen calls out from where she’s throwing half a bag of groceries into the fridge one item at a time. She jogs over to where Tobin’s standing and settles behind her shoulder, resting her chin on the line of it before smiling broadly at the sight of Pinoe’s face. “Hey!” she greets, so cheery and confident, it’s a world away from the shy behavior of their first FaceTime meeting – no hesitation, no timidly hiding in the shadows. Tobin, meanwhile, just bites her lip at the heat of Christen close up behind her, with Christen’s face slotted right beside her own as they both try to stay in frame. 

Tobin can see the way Pinoe’s suppressing the urge to give away a knowing smile, but she holds it back; the words go unspoken, communicated in a silent language that’s shared in looks. It makes Tobin miss the sisterhood of being around the team. The way every feeling always went without saying. There’s at least a consolation prize wrapped up in the way Pinoe says, “Can’t wait for us all to hang out for real one of these days.” 

Tobin feels Christen swallow against her shoulder blade then straighten up. That sweet, ever-so-slightly starstruck nature endures. 

“For real,” Tobin replies on behalf of the both of them. “Miss you, P,” she says sincerely, the truth of it sobering. For all that FaceTime offers, she feels the absence of Pinoe’s arm around her shoulder, the physical embrace more soothing than any words. Not wanting to linger on a sad note, Tobin adds, “Say hi to Sue.” 

“Love you guys,” Pinoe says, before a fleeting comment only to Tobin: “Tobes, I’ll text you whatever updates we get from the lawyers, but I think Molly’s still trying to figure out what’s going on with the postponement of the trial date. Talk to you soon.”

In seconds, with the swift press of a button on a glass screen, they’re alone. Alone again, Christen’s body pressed against Tobin’s, the sharp edge of her chin burrowed into the groove of Tobin’s shoulder. It’s the closest they’ve been since, well, only yesterday, but that’s long enough for a lifetime’s worth of emotion. It’s long enough for countless trips on the dizzying rollercoaster ride of thinking about Christen.

Christen moves away slowly, straightening up before Tobin turns to face her, a step back necessary, a second step much too far. 

“I was thinking maybe we could do salmon for dinner tonight. What do you think?” 

“Sounds good,” Tobin agrees, her smile slanting, her hands toying with the phone as if it’s a card to be shuffled or a ball to be juggled. 

“Great!” Christen nods affirmatively, cheerfully heading back to the kitchen. En route, she stops and turns back to add, “I hope you are ready for my very best brownies.”

Tobin knows she’s not ready for a single fucking thing when it comes to this girl. 

*

Lulled to sleep by the sweet aroma of half-baked brownies, Tobin’s lying across the sofa in the late afternoon when her phone buzzes above the silence to wake her up. It’s a single text, before a flurry more that refuse to be ignored. It’s Pinoe again, and Becky, and Sam one, two, three, four times, and Alex.

Something’s happening. Precisely what, exactly, takes time to discern. What she does know, by the sinking feeling in her gut and the way each question mark comes paired with an exclamation mark, is that it’s bad. 

The lawsuit.

She checks her email, scrolling through a flurry of ignored messages until she sees it sitting there. 

_The equal pay demands have been dismissed by a judge, no trial_ , she reads. _Summary judgment has been given on all but the discriminatory working conditions based on travel conditions and the issues pertaining to personnel and support services issues. The pay equity issue is rejected – CBA given as rationale. (See attached for full ruling and statements.)_

_Judge said: “The history of negotiations between the parties demonstrates that the WNT rejected an offer to be paid under the same pay-to-play structure as the MNT, and that the WNT was willing to forgo higher bonuses for other benefits, such as greater base compensation and the guarantee of a higher number of contracted players.”_

Far from opening the attachment, Tobin can’t read another word. 

Brimming with so much rage she can feel herself shaking, she immediately calls Becky, who picks up instantly. No pleasantries, no fucking around, Tobin starts with: “How can this be fucking real?” The sharp tone of it catches Christen’s attention from the kitchen.

Becky sighs so heavily, Tobin feels a sudden sadness sobering her out of the wilds of blind rage. With remarkable composure, her disappointment quiet though undeniably present, Becky explains, “I… don’t know. I’m about to get on a call with the lawyers now. They gave me a quick overview, but said they’d review the options going forward. It looks like we need to resolve the outstanding issues that weren’t rejected before we can appeal.”

“It’s just–” Tobin doesn’t know what to say. No one knows more than Becky. No one is better informed. She’d called Becky for logical, rational, calm thinking. She realizes now that she should’ve chosen Pinoe, set-it-on-fire Pinoe in the thick of her justified outrage. Tobin’s fury is fully ablaze, even in the face of Becky’s contained anger. “How can he look at it and claim it’s equal? After everything. It was meant to go to trial.” 

“It’s a justice system so messed up they can’t even get this right, can’t recognize the ways the federation manipulated things for the optics of One Nation, One Team. But it’s bullshit. And we _will_ win. We know how to win better than anyone.”

She realizes that there are more important conversations for Becky to have right now than this, than consoling Tobin, Tobin who shied from the media attention and left the legal talk to her teammates. She’d rallied the kids, she’d combed through years worth of emails and letters for every record of evidence, she’d thrown plenty of kindling on the fire through countless meetings. But it was never about her feelings, never about the personal disappointment that weighs heavier than a game loss. She lets her friend go, with only kind, consoling words to close. 

“I’ll keep you posted, Tobes,” Becky reassures her before they both hang up. And Tobin’s left alone with it again, every thread of conversation on her phone a buzzing, cacophonous storm now. 

Throwing it down in a fury, Tobin abruptly tears out of the apartment without a word to Christen, who’s left standing at the counter, an egg timer in her hand and confusion on her face. 

But Tobin’s already far away from home when the fog clears enough for thoughts of Christen to break through, a pang of guilt hitting her as she remembers her friend and the food she’s making back there. Something comforting, love imbued in every flavor, even if not the exact kind of love she’s craving. But there’s a darkness brewing inside her and it’s a side of herself she doesn’t want Christen to bear witness to: the wild storm of emotion that accompanies losing. And tonight it’s worse than 0-6 at home, it’s worse than going out on PKs, it’s worse than being the one to miss. It’s bigger, the pain greater. And she just needs to _feel_ it. The messiness of it. 

When she gets to her art studio, she flies into the room and rushes to the palettes, stained from a thousand other visits. Now, fresh paint is poured over them with abandon, colors mixing without intention before marring half-finished artworks filled with potential they’ll never meet.

She tries so hard to paint. She tries to squeeze out every feeling with splotches of color on cotton. But nothing comes.

Instead, she throws the palette at the wall, shattering the plastic and leaving splatters of acrylic paint all over the wall and the floor and her clothes. Even her Jordans. It’s like an out of body experience, the way her frustration boils her blood, drowning every thought in anger until it bursts out into something physical.

She’s ready to tear it all down, ruin it all.

And when she slides down the opposite wall, it feels like every loss ever has. All at once. Except she doesn’t have a team around her to pick her up off the field, to lift her hand and force a consoling high five or wrap their arms around her for a hug. She’s left there to reflect on the weight of this, this maddening, unjust, crushing blow on a journey that had always stayed the course – they’d won the fucking World Cup, they’d done everything they possibly could to prove their worth. And it hadn’t just been about their worth, the value of the 23 players; it had been bigger than that, stretching the length and breadth of the planet, an attempt to lift up their entire gender with them. At the very least, to leave something good for the next generation of Tobin Heaths, kicking a soccer ball around their parents’ yards just to learn the feel of it against their feet, the way it lands when it’s hooked under the toe of a cleat, the way it curves when it’s struck from the inside arch. It’s for them, and it’s their loss she feels most acutely. 

Tobin doesn’t know how much time passes before she hears a timid knock. That’s how it goes here; the clock is its own master – though usually she’s achieved something: a pretty picture, an explosion of color on canvas. Art of some kind. Now, all she’s made is a mess.

She’s still sat with her back against the wall when that knock interrupts her thoughts. It’s enough to bring her to lift her head. And there’s Christen, her steps cautious as she walks in. 

“Hey,” she begins softly, an apprehensive kind of softness. “Thought I’d find you here.” 

Christen kneels in front of her, her hands settling over Tobin’s knees, commanding her full attention. Her concern is etched in the crinkle above her nose, eyebrows arched together as her gaze sweeps across Tobin’s expression. 

“We lost the lawsuit,” Tobin croaks out, desperate to offer some explanation for her sudden disappearance. She doesn’t feel quite ready to explain it all, to climb down into her feelings and find ways to articulate them, but Christen deserves a reason, at least. 

“No,” Christen replies, almost a gasp, and her shock feels validating. “How–how is that possible? It’s meant to go to trial still, you said?” 

Tobin just shakes her head. The tightness of her throat doesn’t allow for anything more. 

The sound like the ghost of her voice, she says, “It just feels like… the world’s moving in the wrong fucking direction sometimes.” Tears pool in the corners of her eyes, uncried, looming.

Christen rubs her hands in a soothing motion on Tobin’s legs. She doesn’t say a word for a while. Perhaps none come to her, but it feels as if she’s leaving space for Tobin in the silence.

There’s a hush about her tone when she does speak, her fingers rounding on the ridge of Tobin’s knees and squeezing consolation. “Hey, I know it might feel like that now but… have faith. ‘The arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward justice.’” She forces a smile before readjusting her position to cross her legs, a certain permanence about the way she makes herself comfortable. “I know I don’t, umm, know a lot about the details and things… but I think it’ll happen in time. Maybe it’ll be more time than you or I might hope for, but if it happened today, it would still have taken too long.”

Hope rallies in her voice as she continues: “But when it does happen, Tobes, the world will be able to trace it back to the moment that you and your teammates decided to stand up. And I’m sure those lines go back longer, to the players who stood up before you, the ones who even made a Women’s World Cup possible, but you’re a part of that.

“You’ll be a part of this history of change, and more change is still to come.”

Tobin finds the strength to look up, tilting her head back against the wall until it meets her crown, her eyes on the ceiling; Christen is always too much to look at, but now, as she tends to Tobin’s open wounds, it’s all too raw to risk a lingering glance. Tobin only scans her expression on the way up: composure, measure, calmness. Everything she’s always been. 

Her throat as rough as sandpaper, Tobin whispers, “How are you fine? Why are you always so… calm?”

“Tobin?” she asks, a timid voice calling like she’s unsure if she’s speaking the right name. “It’s not my… pain.” In the pause, Tobin wonders if Christen had called back the word ‘loss’. “It’s not mine to feel.” 

“I don’t mean today, exactly,” Tobin explains, her head rolling to the side, eye contact unavoidable and necessary now, even if it sharpens the emotions she’s running away from. She runs her hands through her hair, as she always does when she’s searching for the right words. “All this time, you’ve been with me and I’ve had some, like, fucking bad days. And you just don’t seem to ever get down about any of it. And we don’t know how long this goes on for, or what it means for, like, the world, you know?” 

The floor creaks as Christen shifts her weight onto her knees before moving around to Tobin’s side. With room for only a sliver of space between them, she copies Tobin’s position exactly: back against the wall, knees up in front of her. Sitting side-by-side feels somehow more intimate than face-to-face, perhaps because of the way Tobin had avoided holding her gaze. This is Christen climbing down into the trench to feel Tobin’s pain with her and – just as that notion prompts an audible swallow – she reaches her hand across to lace it with Tobin’s, letting it rest in Tobin’s lap. Like a gift Christen’s left there for her to claim when she wants it. A peace offering, though the war was never fought between them.

“Tobin,” she starts, clearing her throat on the last consonant. “I… umm… I’m not. I’m not always calm.” Tobin feels a squeeze against her hand and it takes a sharp breath to halt a sob. “Tobin, of course I’m not.” 

Christen bows her head, so slowly, like gently sinking underwater. 

It takes Tobin by surprise, her head turning as if a string’s been pulled. The movement is so instinctive, she can only think about it afterward. _Wherever you’ve gone, come back_ , she thinks, and wonders if this is how it feels when she sinks away. It’s her turn to squeeze Christen’s hand.

Quieter, the words murmured softly, Christen continues, “But… before I met you, I was alone. I was lonely. Not just in quarantine but, umm, I’m not good at going out all the time and I work really hard, and it’s… it’s meant I don’t really have many friends here outside of my job. So, I guess,” she looks up again, a tight smile as she catches Tobin’s gaze before she can turn away, her eyes shining in the light, “it’s been kinda nice. To have someone.”

Tobin hears it as an echo of her own feelings. Some muffled, understated version of it.

She doesn’t quite remember how they got here, to this raw point, sitting on the dirty, paint-stained floor of her old apartment at the end of an otherwise contented week, but she’s grateful for the chance to hear Christen open up. 

In silence, she listens to Christen continue, voice distant and thick with emotion. “It feels wrong to say but, for all the days I miss my family and I miss getting to see my colleagues, I think maybe I’m happier than I was before, in a day-to-day kind of way.” A breath it seems like she’s been holding bursts out, deep and heavy – perhaps a little weary too, and Tobin’s sad to think she might never have known this. “Or at least… I feel hopeful. It’s terrible, don’t get me wrong. But it can also be, umm, this great opportunity to stop and look at what wasn’t quite working before, you know? And maybe I need to do a better job of meeting people and making friends, maybe I need to just not work so much.”

Tobin thinks about all the time they’ve hung out together, thinking back to their first introductions and how kind and assured Christen had seemed as she’d gifted brownies to a relative stranger. She also reflects on what came after, what’s blossomed in their time living together, knowing that as much as Christen’s worked hard through the weekdays they’ve spent together, she’s never seemed to overwork herself too much; she can always be talked into a walk around town or a drink on the balcony. Tobin can’t imagine the version of Christen that she’s describing, and she finds herself unable to keep from gently pointing out, “You weren’t really shy when we met.”

“No,” Christen concedes, and breathes out a laugh, “but I’m not really good at putting myself out there either. I guess it took you being, like, literally in my same building… and us not being able to leave, for us to really talk at all.” 

“But you talk to Elena.” Tobin sways her legs to one side, nudging Christen’s. 

Christen laughs before she rolls her eyes. “Tobin, she’s like 60 or something, and I actually haven’t seen her for a few weeks. It might be sadder if she’s my only friend.” 

“Maybe,” Tobin teases.

Tobin feels the hand she’s holding slip away, before Christen leans across and wraps her arms around Tobin like she doesn’t care if it crosses a line. Tobin would’ve worried too much to do it. But she would’ve wanted to; she _had_ wanted to, she begins to realize only now, as Christen shifts her body against Tobin’s and says, “Well, I have you now, don’t I?”

Soft, the tenderness of the feeling poking at a heart more sensitive than Tobin’s ever felt before, she replies, “Yeah.” 

“I always hoped we’d be friends,” Christen confesses, laughing at herself as soon as she says it. 

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. You had a really kind smile.”

Tobin swallows loud enough, she thinks Christen must hear it. She turns to look, to check, and then diverts, saying, “Well, it only took the end of the world as we know it.”

Christen smiles. Hers a kind smile, too. “It’s kinda like fate.” 

_Fate? Fate’s for star-crossed lovers_ , Tobin thinks. But she wants Christen to continue, to elaborate on the meaning, in case their understandings intersect at a sweet spot of mutual understanding. She doesn’t say another word, so Tobin just lets her hands curl around Christen’s arms to hold her there, abandoning all the worries that had been swirling in her head since their trip to the coast, and letting herself enjoy the moment.

“You must be hungry,” Christen says after a quiet moment passes and, instantly, it’s as if the pit of her stomach opens up a sinkhole.

“Yeah,” she mumbles.

“Will you come home now?” Christen asks, like it’s theirs. And it is. Tobin wants it to be so much, and the idea of home is the comfort she craves, so she nods in reply. No longer a question, Christen whispers, “Come home,” as she curls closer, wrapping her arms tighter around Tobin and settling in the curve of her neck like it was molded to fit her. 

Right then, Tobin thinks, _I’m home. I’ve already come home._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry I made everyone wait a month and then it was angst. I'm trying my best out here.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, sorry the chapters are taking so long at the moment. I wanted to reassure anyone who has invested in this story that I am still working away at this. All that's changed is I have significantly less time on my hands these days, so it's been harder to put the same time and focus into it. I didn't want to rush chapters, because I don't want you guys to have invested in a story that fizzles out, so I'd rather allow myself time to do a decent job than hurry it all along. 
> 
> Thank you for your patience if you're still showing up for me. I really genuinely appreciate it.
> 
> (If you're reading this from the future because you don't read unfinished multi-chapters, please recognize and celebrate those who came before you and had to patiently endure some very inconsistent updates as they helped cheer this thing over the line.)

Tobin has grown used to the natural peaks and troughs of her sport, the way it gives with one hand and takes with the other. A euphoric win, chased by a crushing injury. A stumbling loss, then a promising signing. The inconstancy of it has always been part of the draw, the way it keeps her forever hungry and driven and always on her toes. In fact, it’s perhaps that rollercoaster of ever-changing possibility that she’s missed most through the break, through the long, drawn-out wait for whatever comes next. 

It’s perfectly typical, then, that mere days after the lawsuit ruling, she finds herself preparing to train again for the first time. Just as the sport brings her spirits to their very lowest, a spark of hope appears in the distance. A shift in the league rules means that permission is granted, at last, for her to train at Providence Park – on the provisory that she stays within a quadrant separate from any of her teammates. Individual training only. 

There’s a rota. Tobin gets an 11am slot on the Wednesday that the new rules come into play, along with Kling, Weaver and Horan. They each get their own corner. It’s optional, but she’s quick to decide she at least wants to give it a try, the longing to be back on that hallowed ground again almost overwhelming once the offer is there. It also marks the first glimmer of progress. A sign that things might someday soon be moving in a more positive direction. 

It almost feels normal, as she wakes up to get ready. A normal training day in Portland. Normal, except for her semi-permanent guest. The one who’s been keeping her sane this whole time. The one who was never there for anything like normalcy in Tobin’s life. 

The change in the rules seems to bring about a change in Tobin herself. Hope threatens to take hold of her heart as the promise of playing again appears as a light at the end of the tunnel – distant, but there, shining. There’s a lightness, too, that comes in the aftermath of offloading as she did. Opening up to Christen, letting go of the weight of all that expectation, and having Christen open up in return makes it feel a little like a window’s been opened, cool air where it had once been stuffy, suffocating, unbearable. There’s hope there, too. 

She wakes up on a bright, promising Wednesday morning and sets out starting the day with a new attitude. It’s the first time she’s stirred before Christen in a while, so it’s the perfect chance to mark the occasion with surprise pancakes. If Pinoe’s right about Christen using whatever culinary skills she possesses to flirt, Tobin considers that maybe two can play at that game. That’s exactly why she’s in the middle of arranging pieces of fruit in the shape of a smiley face when a bleary-eyed Christen eventually strolls into the kitchen to find her.

_Her curls_ , Tobin thinks first, or perhaps feels since thinking doesn’t seem to come into it. It’s strange that a feature she has grown so used to can still prompt a shock in her, that immediate spark of feeling. Christen’s curls are spilled wildly to one side in loose waves that frame her face so beautifully that the effect can’t even be undone by the way she’s roughly rubbing sleep dust from her eyes. It’s only as Christen’s gaze refocuses, catching sight of the briefly forgotten strawberry Tobin’s using to mark out a nose, that Tobin remembers what she’s doing. Pink-cheeked as she second guesses herself under the spotlight of Christen’s gaze, the rush of blood a tingling sensation beneath her skin, Tobin greets her: “Morning. I, umm, thought it was about time I started pulling my weight in the kitchen.”

Christen laughs and it’s like the day starts, the sun rises to find its place in the sky. “Is that a smiley face?” she asks, sounding a little skeptical, an eyebrow raised with the lift of her question.

“Yeah. Yes. Yes, it is,” Tobin replies, straightening her back, deciding to own the situation since she’s in this deep already. “It’s gonna be a good day. Worth a smile.”

“Oh yeah?” Christen looks at her like she’s searching for the answer to a question. Not with any intensity, but rather like there’s a niggling thought in her mind.

“Yes,” Tobin insists, trying to mentally push away a flurry of questions of her own. Her thoughts seem to retreat back to Pinoe’s theory every time she thinks she’s pushed the memory down far enough. _She clearly adores you in some kind of way._ Tobin fights it off, fumbling to ground herself in the present moment. “I feel like, I kinda…” She takes in a deep breath, exhaling as she meets Christen’s eye. “Like, I want to start afresh. I’ve been really fucking down, and I know that. You must be sick of it, especially this weekend.” 

“Nope.” Christen says it so simply, the hard consonant popping.

Tobin can’t stop to dwell on it, her heart dropping in her chest as she continues. “But I just want to, maybe, like… change up the vibe, you know?” She tosses on a few more pieces of chopped fruit to decorate the borders of the plate around her smiling pancake, then she turns it to face Christen, tilting it to reveal her handiwork. 

“Beautiful.” Christen smiles warmly, before letting free the giggles she’s withholding. She takes the plate from Tobin to study it closer. “You’re fast becoming my favorite artist.” 

“Listen, there’s Nutella and honey and syrup and anything else you might want. I stocked up,” Tobin explains, pushing forth a whole smorgasbord of jars and condiments across the counter. “I thought as it’s my first morning back at work, we could have breakfast together before I go.” 

“Tobes,” Christen says, almost a whisper, as if unable to articulate anything more. “Tobin, this is–” She surveys the veritable feast in front of her, unable to stop herself from beaming with delight. “It’s amazing. You got all this?” The _‘for me’_ sits silent between them.

Tobin nods, tucking her lip beneath her teeth shyly as she feels the stirrings of that particular, acute sensation in her chest: sharper than an ache, too lasting to be a sting. The one that belongs to Christen. The one that’s always stirred by Christen. She wonders when she became this person, so consumed by a single feeling. It feels inescapable when they’re alone now; now that it’s been uttered aloud to Pinoe in private confession, it seems to permeate their interactions so much more. There’s the heightened self-consciousness around giving herself away paired with the constant search for a clue, a hint, a spark of something in return. And there’s learning how to read it, this oblique new language. Because Christen’s smile feels like more than a spark; it feels like an invitation. Tobin’s just not quite ready to trust herself, the thought nagging in her mind that maybe a person can want something so much that they can will themselves to see it that way. It’s impossible to imagine where she’d be left if this, the one good thing in the middle of everything, were to fall apart. This is where she’s found stability and support while every other part of her life moves farther and farther out of reach. 

Quietly, barely above the white noise of the city outside their window Tobin mumbles, “Sorry if I’ve really been bumming you out. It gets to me sometimes. Like, not being able to kick the ball around or see my family in person or hang with my teammates. And the situation, you know, the lawsuit, frustrated the fuck out of me. But I’m, uh, really glad you’re here.” There’s another feeling she can’t quite pinpoint laced within it too, a sense of melancholy grounding the sentiment more than she means to.

Christen slides into one of the chairs before placing the plate down in front of her, smiling down at it fondly. Then Tobin watches the smile fade a little, her tone serious as she looks up to say, “I think we just gotta… pull each other up when one of us is down, you know?”

“Yes. Yeah,” Tobin affirms quickly. She clears her throat. “You’ve kept me sane, I think.”

“Is this you sane?” Christen laughs, holding up the pancake art herself to show Tobin as a couple of the pieces of fruit slide out of place to leave the smile drooping. It cuts through the tension, though, and Tobin’s relieved to feel the strain in her throat ease as a deep breath comes out in a laugh. 

“Last time I make you breakfast!” Tobin throws a blueberry right at Christen’s head and it feels just like the first time they’d shared breakfast together, arguing about something – Tobin can’t even remember what – with no clue they’d be _here_ , like this, just a few weeks later. It’s this that makes her realize how novel her feelings for Christen are; she couldn’t have imagined it because she’s never felt this way before, never truly believed a person could fall so hard, so fast. 

“Hey!” Christen manages to shield herself from any incoming fruit projectiles before shaking her head disapprovingly, the quirk of her lips undoing every bit of sternness in her eyes. “So, are you excited to get back out on the field? You seem… different today. Like, excited.” 

“Yeah, I mean… it’s not like normal but… it’s something, I guess. I get to kind of see my teammates, from a distance anyway, which is cool.” Tobin gives a shrug. “I guess at some point we’ll be training properly, like, if they think it’s even worth individual training now.”

“That’s cool,” Christen replies, nodding, midway through her first bite of the lovingly-prepared pancake.

Feeling as if she’s hearing the words coming out of someone else’s mouth, Tobin continues, “Yeah, but I, uh…” She feels that swoop in her stomach like she’s missed a step coming downstairs, the landing not quite where she expects. A sudden drop, where she’d once thought she was on steady ground. Absently, her hand moves to the edge of the counter to steady herself as that hazy melancholic feeling comes into focus now. “I don’t know if you wanna, like… change things up if that happens.” She trails off, the end of her sentence lilting upwards like a question as she realizes all that this one little development could change. Every bit of joy at the thought of going back to work, going back to her home pitch, just drains out of her. The easy rapport sobers between them, the frenetic chaos of their fruit-throwing replaced by an uneasy stillness.

Christen’s eyebrows furrow, a sharp line marked between them. “What do you mean?”

Tobin doesn’t realize what she means until Christen asks, until the words are coming out: “Like maybe it might be better for you to go home, if I’m, like, having to mix with my teammates. I’m gonna be around people more, and it’s, like, if you can avoid the risk then maybe you should.” There’s a part of her that knows it’s a test without a wrong or right answer, an indulgence of burning curiosity.

Christen shakes her head, and her smile strains a little. “But if they think it’s safe enough for you guys to train together then I trust that it’s safe for me to be here with you.” 

Tobin stares at her, finding herself unprepared for the resistance. 

“I’m not going anywhere, Tobes,” Christen continues, her resolve stiffening. She sounds so solid, so sure. Tobin longs to be that sure, and the regret over having even broached this topic swells in her chest. “I’d miss you too much.”

“Yeah?” Tobin asks, her teeth teasing over her lip as she nervously looks away, fiddling with the label on the jar that’s closest to her. 

Her voice delicate even through unabashed stubbornness, Christen admits, “I think, in a way, I’ve got used to this and the thought of going back makes me… more anxious.” 

“I know what you mean,” Tobin says, almost to herself, barely loud enough for her audience.

“I want to do this together, if that’s okay with you.” Christen’s mood seems to rally, letting the tension in her shoulders drop, even though it still feels a little like a performance to Tobin’s eyes. The smile she paints on isn’t quite her usual one. Still, she sits up and reaches for the maple syrup before drizzling it over her plate. “Like, who else is gonna make me smiley face pancakes at 8am?” 

Tobin laughs, letting herself be swept along with Christen’s tide. “Well, you shouldn’t get used to that. I only woke up early today because I was hyped about training. I’m, like, immediately turning back into a night owl from now on.”

“I’m so happy for you, Tobes,” Christen says, shifting back toward the topic of the day, sighing with the words like she’s really soaking up the feeling. She means it. She sees what it means to Tobin. “I’m so happy you’ll be playing again.”

“Me too,” Tobin replies, wondering why it feels bittersweet now where it had earlier felt only hopeful, why it feels like there’s an egg timer turned upside down, why it feels like an ending as much as a new beginning. 

*

The days of May come and go quicker than March and April ever did, slipping by like sand falling through that dusty, antiquated egg timer that’s tipped in her head. One minute they were picking themselves up from the paint-stained floorboards of her art studio, the next thing she knows she’s feeling the turf of Providence Park beneath her feet again day after day. 

She folds back into something close to an old routine, like learning a classic song with new words. It’s distance and closeness all at once when it comes to her teammates. They’re there, meters away. But never within touching distance. 

Tobin in work mode is a different person: her focus sharpened, her mood more consistent, her drive in the highest gear. It’s always been allowed to consume her life. There’s been no need to establish balance; everything has entirely hinged upon achieving excellence. Whenever she’s dated, it’s been secondary and casual. The line between her professional life and her personal life never needed to be drawn; she never wanted anything but success, all the time, every game, every tournament. It’s been a lifetime of never compromising.

Now she finds herself caught in the in-between. 

As she transitions back into a more regimented training schedule, it lacks the rigid, all-out commitment of times gone by. It cannot consume her life because it’s limited to a solo timeslot on a corner of a pitch. The routine of it, every day for only an allotted period of time before home again, creates a conflict between the different versions of herself she’s never noticed before. The driven, hyper-focused Tobin of work is forced to shift abruptly back into the person she is with Christen, the person she wants to be for Christen.

She comes to settle into it, though. She grows increasingly used to the strict limitations given to her and the rest of the team, and the way an ache opens up during the hours she and Christen are apart. It’s nice to get away, if not just for the feeling of coming home. The feeling of stepping inside the apartment and sensing Christen. The feeling of being greeted with that warm smile after a long day, a sweet, satisfying ache in her muscles as she crashes down onto the couch beside her roommate. 

There’s also the perpetual melody of Pinoe’s words, playing over and over. 

They stay lodged at the front of her mind, imbuing every moment shared with Christen with a question mark. She interrogates each interaction, wondering and wondering and wondering, _could it be?_ Perhaps Pinoe’s hypothesis isn’t so impossible. 

They stay as tactile as ever, spending evenings curled up in front of the TV or crowding each other in the kitchen or looking out on the city from the balcony. Those confusing bubbles of possibility seem to fizz up with increasing regularity, always with the undertone of worry that Tobin is transforming into that creepy, boundary-crossing friend for even entertaining her romantic daydreams. There are moments, ephemeral and triumphant, where Tobin has to wonder if Christen leans into the tension, sometimes creating it from nothing – it seems, it seems, it seems. But Tobin can’t seem to figure out if she’s projecting. 

There’s the day she gets home in a hurry, busting to use the toilet and dumping her stuff at the door in her dash to the bathroom. She’s early, earlier than any day so far, training having wrapped up swiftly and her trip home hastened by her bladder emergency. Still, she hasn’t considered for a moment that she’d catch Christen out. Christen, who’s evidently decided to have a mid-afternoon shower, who’s quickly wrapping her towel around herself as Tobin bursts through the bathroom door, whose eyes are wider than Tobin’s ever seen them while her mouth hangs agape.

After a stunned silence, their words rush from their lips at the same moment.

“I’m–”

“Tobin!”

“–so sorry!”

“Oh my god!”

Tobin finds herself frozen to the spot while Christen’s stuck without much of an escape, though she fumbles for the edge of the towel to cover herself better. Still, even with it wrapped more tightly, in the style of a bandage dress, Tobin’s eyes are drawn to the water droplets pooled at her collarbone. Her skin glistens, wetness falling from where it hangs at the tips of her hair. 

The question mark is thick in the air between them. The way Christen holds Tobin’s eye contact doesn’t help it. There’s almost a challenge in it, the corner of her lips pulling up into a smile. It doesn’t seem shy, not to Tobin. 

_Fuck._

There’s really no way to come back from the image of the girl you like – though the word ‘like’ doesn’t do enough – when she’s just stepped out of the shower. So fresh, so clean. And wet. 

The path Tobin’s thoughts take her down prompts her to find her way back, back, back out the door. The steps are shuffled and awkward, her legs pinned together where she’s still desperate to use the toilet that’s there, right there, behind Christen. But she has to wait. 

“I won’t be a minute,” Christen says, and her tone is breezier now that the panic has faded. Whatever it’s been replaced by is a whole lot more confusing to Tobin. 

“Okay,” she replies, her voice straining over the two syllables. 

She catches the way Christen’s eyebrows arch in amusement, the way she tucks away a smile, the way her wet curls fall in front of her face as her head bows. And then the door between them is closed. 

And it’s odd. Because it was an accident, a total accident. She hadn’t even known Tobin was home. And yet, within seconds, she’d seemed calm and amused by the whole incident, rather than horrified. They’d had pretty clear boundaries. Or, at least, walking in on one another with no clothes on had been avoided for the two months they’d been living together. 

Tobin doesn’t know whether to feel mortified or… something else. 

But there’d been a smile.

A week later, when there’s another moment – just as strange, unexpected, curious – Tobin finds herself equally as confused. She’s busy in the kitchen, throwing together a stir-fry for dinner, the ingredients of which have come pre-portioned for two from a food delivery company that are trying to lure her into advertising their services, when Christen casually wanders in wearing a dress Tobin’s never seen before. 

It’s bold and colourful, fitted around the chest and waist before it billows out into a loose skirt that seems designed to flow with her movement. Christen looks like a daydream, something from a Hollywood movie, even in those moments where she’s barely put together, when she’s still waking up. But now, with the hem of her dress dancing at her feet with each step, it is heightened. She’s impossible. Her smile completes the picture so perfectly, Tobin finds it impossible to perform the half-interested part she’s meant to play. She’s forgotten what she’s doing, where she is, her own name. 

And when Christen turns, suddenly, without warning, to reveal the back of the dress where it gapes open to expose a smooth plane of golden skin, she doesn’t know what to do with herself. 

“Could you do me up at the back,” she asks, belatedly. So belatedly, Tobin’s imagination has already conjured a few other ideas. 

“Oh. Sure,” Tobin’s quick to say, abandoning the wooden spoon in her hand to step forward. She’s in Christen’s personal space before she’s had time to think twice about it, close enough to be wrapped up in the heat radiating from Christen’s body. She finds herself sinking into the scent of a perfume that’s grown all too familiar, the floral aroma distracting her from what she’s meant to be doing, her fingers on a zip that’s not moving.

“Tobin?” Christen presses delicately, letting the question hang in the air. 

_She knows what she’s doing_ , Tobin thinks. _She must know._

Playing into it as the air grows increasingly charged, Tobin’s careful as she handles the zip. She places a hand lightly – a feather touch – on Christen’s partially exposed shoulder to steady herself, feeling the warmth of Christen’s skin against her fingers, pulling the cool metal zipper upward with the other. Slowly. Slower than it needs to be. Slow enough to convey her willingness to play along if indeed a game is afoot. She takes care to notice the light freckles that mark out a trail between Christen’s shoulder blades, the way her own breath stirs the delicate hairs at the back of Christen’s neck, the sound of Christen’s slow inhale.

As the zipper reaches its natural end, she feels Christen straighten as if a shiver has run up her spine. Whether it has or not is anyone’s guess, but Tobin smiles to herself at the thought.

Then Christen spins to face her, a reminder that she’s never going to be in control of this. 

Her smile overpowers Tobin once more as she warmly says, “Thank you!”

Tobin steps back. She looks Christen up and down, appraising the outfit as she feels Christen wants her to. “I haven’t seen this one before. Are you heading out somewhere?” There’s a pause, long enough for Christen to roll her eyes, and Tobin decides to steel herself. She pushes a little further. “Got a big date?”

Christen falters for just a second before sighing dramatically, doubling down on the eye-rolling, then laughing it off. “No, I was trying on some new clothes. What do you think?” She poses playfully, her fingertips teasing at the fabric as though she’s about to curtsey. 

“It’s…” Tobin clears her throat. “Umm, yeah. Like, you… You look nice.”

“Something stuck in your throat there, hotshot?” 

_She fucking knows_. Tobin narrows her eyes a little, forcing a tight smile. “I’m fine.”

“Look, I was making an effort for you, if you must know.”

Tobin can’t hide the shock of it, her eyes smarting with the threat of tears that she just about manages to fend off. The way they might after a bump on the nose, or a sneeze. It’s just the shock. It feels so direct, so unambiguous. How many reasons can there be that one person buys clothes for the benefit of another? Tobin swallows. For a second, it all seems so uncomplicated. It’s clear. If Pinoe were here, her eyes would be wide enough they might actually fall out, because why else? 

Quickly, a little uncharacteristically flustered, Christen continues, “Don’t worry, I’m not gonna make you dress up with me. Obviously you can wear whatever you like for your own day, but I wanted to get something nice for your birthday.” She says it so off-handedly that Tobin feels like she must have missed all the cues to feel so caught out by it.

“My birthday?” Tobin echoes, as if the day itself is news to her.

“Yes. It’s coming up.”

Tobin’s eyebrows narrow. “Right.”

“And we’re still gonna be… in, umm, quarantine,” Christen tucks a lock of hair behind her ear before looking up from under her eyelashes, “so I think we should make it special, you know?”

Softly, barely above a mumble as her eyes fall to the ground, Tobin says almost to herself, “You bought a dress?”

“I mean, it’s not that big of a deal. I just wanted to, umm, make an effort. It’s been a while since we had any reason to, and… I just… wanted to,” Christen says again, shyer on repeating it. 

“You don’t have to–”

“I wanted to,” she cuts in, her words firm and her gaze holding strong. Tobin can only nod then, words failing her. 

She steps back further, the furious sizzle from the pan and the scent of bell peppers just this side of burnt drawing her attention. She’s glad for something to do, reaching for her wooden spoon just to keep her hands busy. And Christen slinks away at the same time, spinning again on her way out as if still deliberating whether the swish of the fabric is entirely satisfactory. 

Christen disappears only as long as it takes to change back into her regular clothes – except now that means some casual combination of her clothes and Tobin’s. The hoodie and sweatpants emblazoned with various interests and employers of Tobin’s.

That’s normal now. That’s how it is, the routine unquestioned after weeks of practice. Tobin wakes up to spend breakfast with Christen. Tobin goes to training. Tobin comes home from training and, between electric moments that make her heart hammer in her chest, they fall into such an easy, relaxed friendship it seems as if the charged atmosphere was all Tobin’s imagination. There’s all too much time to let that thought permeate even moments of absolute certainty, conversations with Pinoe that hype her up, drawn out goodnights pregnant with possibility.

As with any other night, they soon drift over to the couch after inhaling dinner in what must be record time, then flick through the options on Netflix while both knowing what’s inevitable. Christen’s even dressed for the occasion, swapping out her sweatshirt for Tobin’s Jordan jersey – “just to really commit.” The clothes-sharing is so frequent between the two of them now, it has become unremarkable. What had started with a hoodie has now turned into all of it – caps, accessories, sweatpants, anything from the laundry pile. There are the cleats that now sit in Christen’s room. There’s the hair ties that pass between them with no trace of ownership. There are the gifted designer tees that never meant much to Tobin until she saw Christen in them – now they’re favorites. Tobin thinks she might give up every last jersey she owns if Christen wanted to claim them. 

They curl up together, their toes brushing, occasional footsie permissible beneath the cover of their shared blanket. 

The penultimate episode of _The Last Dance_ on their screens, Tobin notices Christen welling up ever so slightly as the documentary dives into Jordan’s teammate, Steve Kerr, and his early years: the loss of his father during college, his journey to the NBA. As it moves back toward the subject of the iconic team’s final season and the first of Kerr’s heroic highlights comes, Christen can’t stop herself from getting sucked in. She’s practically up on her knees, her whole body shifted toward the screen, willing the three-pointer into the basket. When it goes in, the cheer she gives seems to surprise even herself as Tobin laughs at her enthusiasm, charmed by it. 

Tobin shakes her head, though unable to resist a smile. “I knew you’d choose Kerr as your favorite. You’re very predictable.” 

Christen groans at Tobin, and she probably deserves it – predictability can hardly seem a compliment. “I don’t care what you say. I love a… a humble legend,” she decides, turning her face up defiantly as she crosses her arms over the top of the blanket, its hem tucked tight against her chest.

“Are you about to become a Warriors fan in my house?” Tobin teases.

“In your house!” Christen laughs, outright laughs in her face. “You gonna kick me out because I think Steve Kerr seems nice? You can’t _not_ like Steve Kerr. That’s like… not liking Christmas, or something.” 

“I don’t dislike Steve Kerr, Chris,” Tobin replies with a shrug. Gesturing towards the screen, she continues, “I just… we’re watching a documentary on the greatness of Jordan and you’re all in on the point guard with the lucky break.” 

“Eight rings, baby,” Christen continues to goad her. Tobin’s just shaking her head in disapproval, unwillingly being sucked into a hint of genuine annoyance. There’s also the echo in her head: _baby, baby, baby_. A throwaway comment she’d like to keep forever. 

Still, she manages to hold her cool tone to flippantly reply, “Take Jordan and Steph out of the equation and how many’s he got, Chris? Right place, right time.” 

“You’re mean. Don’t be mean to Steve.” 

“He got beat up by Jordan. He’s fine. He can handle it,” Tobin says, sniggering still as Christen pouts dramatically. “I’m gonna take back that jersey because you obviously don’t deserve it.”

“I look good in it, though,” Christen retorts, and all Tobin can do is raise her eyebrows. She’s helpless to the truth. And Christen absolutely knows she’s won, her beaming grin saying as much. Maybe she knows everything about everything, because sometimes, when moments of easy friendship transform into sparking, heated stand-offs, Tobin thinks she might truly have met the person that can see right through her, know everything about her. Christen seems to confirm it, too, when she adds, “I think you secretly love when I borrow your clothes.”

Tobin’s hands ball beneath the blanket. They feel clammy now. They were fine before. She was fine. 

Christen continues, still the very measure of nonchalance and flippancy, “Besides, you wear the same three t-shirts, like, all the time, so someone’s gotta wear the rest of them.” 

“Yeah, Chris,” Tobin concedes, trying to summon her good humor. She used to be cool. She used to be a cool-headed, chill person. Now it feels like pure performance. “My closet’s very grateful.”

They hold each other’s gaze for a long moment, as if stuck at an impasse, a quirk at the corner of Christen’s lips to match the slight tilt of Tobin’s mouth that gives away a smile. It lasts a while – too long, perhaps. Tobin can feel the blush in her cheeks blooming but still can’t bring herself to break it off. It takes the swell of cheers from the television speakers to catch their attention, calling them back to the final minutes of the episode. 

It’s a life-line, Tobin thinks gratefully. The perfect excuse to tear herself away from heart-stopping gorgeous green eyes she really shouldn’t be getting lost in. 

But even as she pivots her attention back to the TV, the feeling of being watched lingers. Even with only the light of the television screen illuminating the room, Tobin can feel it. It’s the kind of suffocating, almost painful intensity she longs for whenever they’re apart. She wonders if Christen can see her blush even in the dark, the tingling rush of blood to her cheeks making her self-conscious that they’re lit up in luminous neon. 

It feels so obvious. _She_ feels so obvious. 

When she glances over, though, Christen’s engrossed in the episode. She doesn’t react to the curious gaze of her roommate, only smiles to herself as Kerr ties up the game on-screen. 

*

The missing Christen part of Tobin’s day seems to soften with time as she settles into their new routine together, but the feeling of coming home never does. Today, though, her training session is filled with distraction. There are rumors swirling of an NWSL tournament, a comeback cup. It feels soon, too soon to be thinking about every player in the league all in one place. The intensity of a tournament in lieu of a season is hard to imagine, too, given the length of time they’ve been out and the lack of a meaningful pre-season. And yet the part of her that burns to play longs for it to be true, for it to come true. 

What she wants most is to play with the national team again, a reunion with her closest friends without the prospect of an endless series of games right away. 

But she loves the Thorns, too. She loves the city, her teammates, that magnificent stadium. 

As she watches Becky from the far end of the field, she smiles to herself thinking of all they could achieve now. They’d have the new rookies, fresh and naive but bubbling with potential. They’d have captain-level experience all over the field, and depth as a result. And the goalkeepers, she thinks as she watches Britt and Bella run drills at either end of the pitch while A.D. looks on from the stands, would be unstoppable. 

She gives over much of the afternoon to work, sweating it out from her patch of turf before observing a few of her teammates once she’s done. There’s no rule against heckling from a distance so she takes advantage of it, giving Lindsey and Kling and Sinc uninvited feedback just for fun. It ends up being the longest time she’s been apart from Christen in weeks.

Later, when Tobin gets home, her mind filled with those whispers about the tournament and what it could mean for her, all thoughts of work dissolve in an instant. From the doorstep, she hears singing. Faint. 

She wanders through the apartment to find Christen in the kitchen, dancing between her laptop open on the counter and the stovetop, which is decorated with an assortment of pans on the burners. There’s a swell of spicy aromas rising from them that simmer and sizzle there, and Stevie Wonder’s playing in the background, but it’s Christen’s voice she hears above every other sense: _“I was made to love her, worship and adore her, hey, hey, hey…”_ Her hips are moving, her eyes are closed, and she’s doing her best to hit every note, straining her voice a little in her efforts but that only makes it sweeter to Tobin’s ears. 

The sights and sounds and smells are a slice of comfort, of a new normalcy she’s grown so fond of. It’s Christen’s favored easy listening playlist, she recognizes instantly as ‘I Was Made to Love Her’ fades into a Michael Kiwanuka song she’s grown familiar with. 

“Hey,” she greets her distracted roommate, catching her full attention so suddenly that she gets to enjoy the warm smile that breaks out across Christen’s face when she realizes Tobin’s home.

“Hey,” Christen echoes, the same but slower, fonder, warmer. 

Absently, she reaches for her laptop to draw it shut. Her eyes drift to Tobin’s feet and as Tobin’s gaze follows it, she’s reminded of the freshly unboxed shoes she’d chosen for the day. 

“WHAT ARE THOSE?” Christen says, in the silliest voice possible, erupting with laughter as soon as she’s got the words out. 

Tobin plays her part dutifully, pretending to model the shoes in front of her. The soles squeak against the floor as she replies, “Chicago J-1s, by Travis Scott.”

“Well, look at you, Miss Designer Sneakers.”

“Not my favorite nickname,” Tobin replies. Christen tilts her head to the side, as if that might only entice her to use it more. And then Tobin adds: “You’re not allowed to steal these ones.”

Christen lays a hand over her chest, full of faux indignation, her tone laced with that particular sweetness that Tobin’s utterly unable to resist. “Oh, please. Does that sound like me?”

Tobin laughs at her audacity, the twinkle in her eye an irresistible spark of amusement. She could read the phonebook and Tobin would be her willing audience, laughing appreciatively to fill every pause.

“Back to work and she’s already back to style icon, but do your fans know you fall asleep in your regular clothes almost every night?”

Tobin pretends to be affronted. “That’s a bad thing?”

“I think in polite society, yes.”

“Just as well it’s only you here then,” Tobin shoots back.

Christen grins in a way Tobin finds impossible to read, then shakes her head. “I’m going to let that one slide because, well, I’m... in a very good mood with you today.” 

“Oh yeah?” Tobin’s attention wanders to the pans, and the chopping boards, and the oven – which glows with a mysterious something in silhouette. “What’s all this in aid of?” 

“Well,” Christen starts, her eyes drifting up shyly as she seems to contemplate the right explanation. Tobin waits eagerly, eyebrows raised in anticipation, and then Christen’s gaze returns to her and she says, “I, uh,” – she tucks her lip beneath her teeth briefly, another smile hidden away in it – “ran into Elena when I was coming back from my run earlier.” 

Tobin says nothing for a long while, and then only, innocently: “Oh?”

_The cleats._ The gesture hadn’t crossed her mind for weeks. It was such a small thing, a way to pay forward Christen’s kindness toward her. Nothing much, really. 

Christen nods almost imperceptibly, then she moves around to where Tobin’s standing, unaware of the way her approach makes Tobin’s heart beat faster, fast enough that the heart rate monitor on her watch is going to throw up some interesting numbers later, and she kisses her gently on the cheek. It feels as if the brush of Christen’s soft lips might leave a tattoo on her skin, a mark to match the way it burns. Softer still are her words: “That was a very nice thing you did, Tobin.”

A rosy feeling curls inside Tobin’s chest, leaving her shy under Christen’s close-up gaze. She clears her throat before replying, voice thick and low, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

That seems to make Christen laugh – a frustrated burst of laughter. “You pretend to be so… I don’t know…” 

“What?”

“You’re impossible to read, you know that?”

Tobin laughs then, if only to fill the silence. The look in Christen’s narrowed eyes, like she’s trying to read her right now, makes Tobin nervous. 

Perhaps sensing the effect she’s having, Christen’s expression relaxes again to a warm, glowing smile. She moves forward and pulls Tobin into a hug, as if the idea occurs to her urgently and out of nowhere. Tobin only lets herself be held, not trusting herself with a single decision. Not while Christen’s face is pressed to the curve of her neck, her breath hitting the bare skin there as her gentle voice continues, “But you’re soft, aren’t you? Underneath all that cool, a big old softie at heart.” 

“I don’t know what you mean.” Tobin swallows loudly. Christen’s too close not to notice, too. 

“Sure.” 

They’re quiet then, but the truth feels loud. It echoes as their hearts beat against one another’s chests. Tobin’s sure of it. She’s sure, too, that the way she slowly sinks deeper into Christen’s embrace answers any follow-up questions her roommate might have. But it doesn’t matter. Tobin just wants to let herself be held. It feels clingy and desperate and obvious the way she squeezes out every last second she can, but it’s like she _needs_ it. 

When Christen shifts to move away, the prick of disappointment is sharp. 

She’s relieved, though, by the way Christen quickly switches back into their usual, easy rhythm. Instead of prodding further, or teasing Tobin for her overly keen affection, she casually asks, “So, how was training today? You have any idea of when you might get a game?” 

Tobin sighs heavily. She thinks about her long day, about the tournament rumors going around, about what it could mean for their time together. It all feels like too much to contemplate for today. It feels like an intrusion on their bubble. She doesn’t want to think of a single thing outside of this moment. Instead of mentioning it, knowing the many questions Christen will quiz her with if she does, Tobin replies, “Yeah, I don’t know. I don’t know. It seems like everything’s kinda, like, up in the air right now.” 

“Hopefully you’ll hear something soon,” Christen offers, as if attempting to rally her. As always. 

“Yeah, hopefully,” Tobin mumbles in reply. 

Christen puts her hand to Tobin’s cheek, brushing over it momentarily before drawing away. She heads back over to tend to the culinary operation she’s got underway, settling in front of the burners. She glances over her shoulder to say, “Well, we’ve got one last episode of _The Last Dance_ to go, and I’m pretty sure we’re gonna need some distraction from this disaster curry I got going on” – Christen looks skeptically at the contents of her pan, lifting the wooden spoon from it and letting the sauce drip for inspection – “so… what do you say?”

“Sounds perfect,” Tobin replies, because it does. It sounds perfect. Perfect, in a world where it isn’t also absolute torture, but close enough just the same. 

It turns out to be both. 

Barely half an hour later, with the finale providing all the entertainment they need, they curl up together on the sofa in the spots that have become theirs, folding against each other for the warmth of human contact. It’s easy. That’s what makes it so hard. That’s what makes the stakes so high. But when it feels _this_ easy, this right, Tobin can’t help but think there has to be a reason for it. She steels herself with each passing moment, knowing that this perfect torturous limbo is unsustainable. 

For tonight, just for tonight, she decides to soak up the last minutes of their docuseries and cherish the way it will feel when they inevitably fall asleep on the couch together. It’s become their private tradition. 

They eat the Thai green curry that Christen sells herself short on but Tobin enjoys every bite of. They laugh together over the silly moments that unfold on-screen. They edge ever closer, until Christen’s head is propped against the hard edge of Tobin’s shoulder. 

_“We went from a shitty team to one of the all-time best dynasties,”_ Michael Jordan explains in the background, the timber of his low voice coming in and out of Tobin’s focus. _“All you needed was one little match, to start that whole fire.”_

It’s the same as it always is. The same as the previous nine episodes.

Right up until Tobin shifts nearer, closer, her hand coming up Christen’s back. She’s got it laid flat against the back of Christen’s top, pressed smooth enough that she feels the bumps of bra straps and the creases of the fabric as she sweeps upward. She traces the length of it, from the base to the top of Christen’s spine, only settling still as she finds the back of Christen’s neck. It feels natural – a little familiar, perhaps, but natural considering the way Christen is lying half-draped over her by the time the credits roll. 

She shifts her face a little, brushing her cheek against Christen’s forehead with the movement. She thinks if Christen would just tilt her face up now, like this. If she’d just look up. _Look up_.

It shocks her, then, when Christen abruptly shifts away instead. The sound of a trailer on the Netflix menu, its volume a little too high, jolts her back. When she looks up at Tobin at last, it’s from a distance. At least more of a distance than Tobin’s used to. And instead of settling back down once Tobin’s muted the sound, she moves further away. She sits up. She untucks her legs from beneath her.

Tobin had just begun to accept that maybe, just maybe, Christen is just as guilty of searching for flimsy excuses to sleep lying next to each other as she is. But now, when the chance is right there, Christen gets up with a dirty plate in each hand and heads for the kitchen. All Tobin’s left with is whiplash. It’s as if they’ve gone from no boundaries at all to having the Great Wall of China stretching between them with the flip of a switch. “Shit. I’ve actually got a few things to do for work still, I just remembered. I better, umm, head to bed,” Christen says, talking through a whole body yawn that has the words coming out as a groan. She doesn’t look back, her words trailing behind her without direction. “Long day.” 

“Oh. Okay,” Tobin says, shifting upright suddenly, awkwardly, trying to pretend not to be quite so disappointed. She roughly rubs her face, as if trying to wake it up. It’s tears, though. Tears coming up too fast. Tears at the thought that she might’ve been too forward, that she might’ve misread the past hour, day, week. _Fuck_. 

“Night, Tobes,” Christen says, oblivious to the fierce wave of rejection that Tobin’s riding out in her wake. 

“Night,” Tobin tries to reply, but the sound of it gets swallowed away by the tide.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, hello, I’m back with another long note to go with a long chapter! I just wanted to quickly address something that I should probably have mentioned earlier. Someone commented on the last chapter to ask about the BLM protests that took place around the time that we’re catching up to, asking whether they’d impact on the story. I thought I'd just give a heads up: while I don’t want to ignore the significance of those events, they will not be included in this fic – for a couple of reasons. 
> 
> The first is that I simply don’t feel it’s appropriate for me (a white woman) to put words in the characters’ mouths regarding this issue – particularly Christen’s. I’m very aware that these characters I'm writing are probably very far from the real people who inspire them and I think, personally, it would be crossing a line for me to assume their beliefs or feelings in this context and write dialogue surrounding that. I'm just not comfortable with it.
> 
> The second reason is that it is such an incredibly heavy topic that doesn’t really fit the tone of this story or the trajectory as I begin to move things toward resolution. I planned this out in April and, while that original plan has evolved a little since then, I’ve stayed pretty true to that initial vision and timeline, which preceded these real-life events. 
> 
> I hope that makes sense for those who were wondering about this. I do urge you to revisit the links listed in the notes on **[Chapter 4](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23946175/chapters/59164459)** , including this list of excellent organizations that you can still donate to: **[https://blacklivesmatters.carrd.co](https://blacklivesmatters.carrd.co/#other)**. Another great place to direct your donations right now would be to **[the campaigns for the two Georgia Senate races](https://fairfight.com/) **.****
> 
> With that extremely heavy and serious preamble said, I really hope you enjoy this new chapter. As ever, thank you for your patience. (And if you hate it, please don’t tell me!!! My ego is fragile and this year has been very low on serotonin!!!)

The week of Tobin’s birthday, small group training is given the green light as if gift-wrapped especially for her. Lindsey is the one to call her, and she shares the news like it is theirs most of all, like it’s been arranged as the kind of joint birthday celebration they’d once enjoyed in Paris, like the rules are null and void suddenly. Though Tobin knows that’s not exactly accurate, the thought of having someone to kick a ball to again is enough to lift her otherwise downbeat mood. 

She’s been trying to shake it off, trying to ignore it, but the feeling that Christen’s starting to withdraw proves to be a persistent one. It’s heightened by the way Christen retreats to her room early for the second, third and fourth night in a row, as if _The Last Dance_ ’s conclusion might have been their last dance, too. And by the way she’s on her laptop constantly, as if tied to it, suddenly overloaded with work to do – though it’s work she never talks about the way she once had, openly and animatedly. And by the way she seems distracted through every conversation they have, none of which seem to take place while curled up on the sofa together anymore.

But it’s fine. 

She can meg Lindsey and laugh at Sinc’s funny asides and practice her give-and-gos with Kling. 

Being back with her team, even in a smaller group, feels like slipping back into her own skin. The first day they’re reunited, she trains harder than she can ever remember training. It’s not her best output, but the effort is unrelenting: sprints until she’s about to collapse, shot after shot after shot, eagerly chasing every ball. 

She burns every last shred of energy, the pleasing ache of her muscles kicking in early. It’s the perfect distraction. She finally gets to escape her own company, that of her worries and her crushed hopes and her yearning. So much fucking yearning, constantly. It’s a mercy to be given a break from thinking about Christen with such unrelenting intensity, to be able to think instead of the trajectory of a volleyed ball brushing just beneath the bar and into the net or the game plan of her orange-bibbed opposition as they pass in sequence to evade her interceptions. 

There's also, beneath the excitement of the team’s partial reunion, a question mark surrounding the newly-announced NWSL Challenge Cup. Tobin had kept her nose out of it for the most part, but swirling rumors have become firm announcements and now there's no getting away from it: a month-long bubble-style tournament format, made optional by the work of the players’ association. Optional in that slightly awkward way that means no one quite wants to mention it, the elephant on the pitch, though its looming presence feels impossible to ignore. There’s the line between Mark’s eyebrows that might as well be a question mark as he watches each of them strike the ball, as if analyzing them to know _in or out?_ It’s new enough news that no one’s been asked to answer that question aloud yet. 

For now, Tobin pushes it as far to the back of her mind as she can. It’s filed right beside her feelings for Christen, in the category of problems for another day. 

On the one hand, it’s something to give the fresh novelty of training a purpose. And there’s the not insignificant matter of the upcoming Olympics. On the other hand, the NWSL will be the first league back. There’s no waiting it out to see how it works for anyone else; they are the guinea pigs, effectively. And then there’s the confusing matter of Christen, and the bubble they’ve created all on their own. Going away now would feel painfully like drawing a line under things, extinguishing whatever flicker of hope remains, because surely Christen would go back to her own place if Tobin left. And surely once she moved back into her apartment, that would be it. They’d sink into the molds of their old lives, warm greetings as they passed each other in the hallways the only sign that anything ever happened.

Tobin juggles the ball by herself as she mulls over the prospect of that looming tournament once more, ignoring the bone-tired exhaustion that’s settled heavy in her legs now that they’ve finished up. Standing just outside the 18-yard box, she has it balanced in the arch of her foot, trapped there until she kicks up to release it and begins bouncing it on her thighs, her chest, eventually her head. 

She’s just in the middle of heading it up into the air again when she gets blasted by a wayward strike from up the pitch. The smack of the ball against her bare leg stings acutely and she can already feel the red mark it leaves transforming into a bruise. 

_Lindsey_ , she knows instantly, hearing a cackle and turning to see her friend hidden behind Sinc at the center line. 

“Sorry Tobes!” her teammate calls out to her, waving out an apologetic hand. 

Tobin falls into a lackadaisical jog to collect Lindsey’s ball before taking a swing at it, launching it in the air and sending it straight to the spot where Lindsey’s standing – though the young midfielder hastily leaps out of the way to dodge it. It’s satisfying to know she can still drop the ball on a dime. 

“I thought you wanted it back!” Tobin quips, calling out across the field. 

She catches sight of Mark laughing at them from the sideline, then notices Lindsey running toward her and looking mischievous. In seconds, she’s at her side and stretching her arms around a reluctant Tobin who resists the embrace as Lindsey giggles and insists, “But I missed ya, Toby!” 

“Missed you too,” Tobin concedes, though she barely has time to get the words out before she’s pulled down onto the turf by her friend, too burned out to put up much of a fight. “Stop, stop!” 

They soon end up sitting down together on the ground, Tobin with her ball trapped between her knees and Lindsey a few feet away, leaning back on her hands. Once the giggles settle, there’s a contented quiet between them that breathes easily. It allows space enough for Tobin to realize this is the first time for a long time that they’ve been together in person, the first time since they’d left each other at the airport after national team camp. Beyond calls to each other across the pitch, they haven’t really seen each other in months. She hasn’t seen anyone but Christen in months. 

Tobin finds herself looking at Lindsey, trying not to let on that she’s examining her for changes. Her friend looks a little older now, as if sobered by the past few months. She considers all that’s changed since the start of the year – expectations, circumstances, rosters. It prompts her to ask Lindsey if she’s missing the other half of her double act these days. 

“The dog’s been a good distraction. Ferguson’s, like, a 24 hour job, honestly, so it’s actually good… for me. He’s kept me busy, and Sonnett FaceTimes me like twice a day still.” 

“Oh my god,” Tobin says, the words trickling out in a chuckle. “What do you even find to talk about?” 

“Dumb shit, usually,” Lindsey admits. “And our dog babies.”

Tobin nods along, still laughing at the continued devotion of her friends.

“So,” Lindsey starts, dragging out the vowel in a way that immediately sets Tobin on edge. She almost knows what’s coming somehow when, with a severe lack of subtlety, Lindsey pivots to ask, “How’s your roomie?” It’s almost childish the way she asks it, like she’s giddy with the mere hint of gossip she seems to have acquired. 

“My roomie, huh?” Tobin raises her eyebrows. She lets the ball drop from between her knees, then scoops it up with her feet. “You been waiting long to ask me about that? How’d you even know?”

Lindsey looks appropriately guilty. She presses her lips together and looks off to the side.

Tobin lets out a long, unsteady sigh. “I’m so not getting into it right now.”

“Well, that means there’s clearly something happening,” Lindsey declares, a self-satisfied smirk left on her face as Tobin holds eye contact. 

“I, like, cannot express how not true that is,” she says, trying to ignore the bitter taste of those words in her mouth. She runs a hand over her hair, collecting flyaways that have sprung loose while she’s been playing. Her ponytail hangs heavy now, the length of her hair weighing it down after months without a trim, and she takes the opportunity to pull it out of the tie and tidy it up. It’s at least an excuse not to look at Lindsey. 

The laughter’s gone from Lindsey’s voice when she says, quieter now, “You’ve been spending all this time together? For months? That’s gotta make you… close.” 

“Yeah,” Tobin admits, the word almost so quiet that it gets lost in the great big stadium around them. But Lindsey catches it. Tobin can tell when she looks up, still smoothing over her hair where it feeds into her newly retied ponytail, and sees the scrutiny in Lindsey’s gaze. “But not in that way that’s gonna have you texting Harry updates as soon as you get your phone back,” she adds, teasing now, desperately reaching to lighten the mood that’s got awfully tense somehow. 

“No? Okay,” Lindsey seems to accept. There’s a shrug behind it that Tobin finds a little too casual. “I just thought it might’ve been nice if you’d, like, got something out of this shitty, weird time.” 

“And what’ve you got out of it, then?”

“Tobin!” Lindsey puts her hand over her heart, as if shocked and offended that she needs to ask. “I’m a mom now!” 

Tobin only rolls her eyes, choosing this moment to escape. She moves to get up, brushing away the black rubber that’s stuck to her legs from the turf as Lindsey follows suit. Side by side, they wander back over to the seats where they’d abandoned the rest of their stuff – bags, sneakers, top layers. 

Picking up her phone, Tobin finds a text from Christen: _Eating early (4pm kinda early) because so much to do tonight, but made sure to get more salad for you. Hope training goes well!_ There’s a blushing smile emoji at the end, but it does little to quell the disappointment Tobin feels at the thought of eating alone. Still, she tries to ignore how off their rhythm they are, tries to convince herself it has nothing to do with phasing back to normal, tries not to look so plainly crestfallen while still in view of Lindsey’s curious gaze. 

She takes her time leaving Providence Park with nothing to get home for. 

Once she’s taken off her cleats and peeled off her socks, she decides to take a walk barefoot across the turf. It’s a grounding feeling to soak up being back, being home in a whole new way. She looks out on the empty stands and there’s a flash of memory that fills up the stadium: waving, cheering fans chanting her name, plumes of colorful smoke floating up, a sea of red all around. _There’s no place like home._

Leaving and knowing she’ll be back tomorrow is a comfort. It’s a routine filled with promise, even if it’ll still be a long time before Providence Park looks truly itself. 

When she does eventually get back to her apartment, fully prepared to assemble her own makeshift dinner alone for the first time in what must be weeks, Christen greets her with the kind of bright smile Tobin no longer takes for granted. It’s enough to have her blushing a little too red as Christen warmly greets her with, “You’re home! How was practice?” as if they’ve been married 30 years and this is a well-worn pattern in their life together. 

She hadn’t even been sure Christen would be there instead of back at her own place, hiding away for reasons she can’t quite figure out. Instead, despite Tobin’s drastically lowered expectations, Christen loiters as she sets about making food, leaning over the edge of the counter with her chin resting on the heel of her hand. She looks up at Tobin with eyes big and curious and it feels like the first time Tobin’s held her full attention since the night she’d retreated. She can’t help but feel a little giddy under the attention.

“It was awesome,” Tobin says, with a smile that takes up her whole face. The thought that she might be able to have both – soccer and Christen – suddenly burns a hopeful fire. 

“Not too weird?”

Tobin pulls open the fridge, grabbing a bunch of vegetables from the tray before dumping them out on the counter. She’s quick to start chopping fresh tomatoes as she replies, “Like, definitely weird with the, like, temperature checks and the new safety protocols and whatever, but it was good, I think. It was good to be back with the group, you know?”

“Have you – have you heard, umm, anything about playing at all?” Christen asks casually, reaching over to steal a slice of tomato from Tobin’s chopping board. 

Though the Cup is set in stone, as much as anything can be at the moment, her own involvement feels far from decided. Because she doesn’t know the full details, because she doesn’t know yet if she’ll choose to play in it, it doesn’t feel like a lie to say, “Not really.” 

Christen's eyes seem to hold the question, so Tobin adds, "I'm just happy to be able to practice beyond just... solo stuff. Not that you weren't a great training partner."

The corners of Christen’s eyes crease to a smile, her expression soft as she tilts her head. “Thank you. I’m glad you had a good day.” She holds her watchful gaze to a stare. Tobin feels the attention dancing over her skin, like a brush of contact. “I like you like this. You seem… content.” Christen stands upright to move closer to Tobin, letting her hand sweep over Tobin’s back as she passes en route to pouring herself a glass of water. It takes Tobin by surprise; she’s been consciously not making physical contact since Christen seemed to withdraw from it, so this touch feels all the more electric. It momentarily distracts Tobin from Christen’s words, even as she adds, “It’s nice to see you so happy.”

 _I like you like this_ , Tobin replays in her mind.

It hits harder than Lindsey’s lame cross-field strike, the sting of hope and possibility flashing in her heart. It’s the surprise of it, more than anything. The little throwaway comments come all the time – the ones that make Tobin wonder, echoing Christen’s words in her mind with a question mark at the end – but the past few days’ distance mean they come by surprise now. Tobin closes her eyes with the mercy of Christen’s attention briefly turned away, allowing herself a secret smile.

Still, long before Tobin’s ready to dish up her haphazardly thrown-together salad, Christen excuses herself on account of being busy. Tobin, utterly exhausted from her day, allows the numbing tiredness to soften the blow. She hasn’t got enough energy left to worry about everything she’s said and done. She hasn’t even got enough energy left to stop her from closing the gap between them the way that feels natural and squeezing her friend’s shoulders.

“Don’t work too late. You’re no good on no sleep,” Tobin tells her, almost on autopilot, knowing Christen’s love for sleep as well as her own insomniac tendencies. 

It’s how they’d ended up together, after all.

Together, but not quite. Tobin opts not to think about that last part, just for tonight. It’s been a good day, after all, overall. It’s been a better day than yesterday. And even if things with Christen are fading from view, soccer is at least coming back into focus. 

*

When Tobin wakes up on the morning of May 29th, it’s a day like any other. Partly because, for Tobin, that’s exactly what it is. She doesn’t remember right away. She doesn’t pay all that much attention to the days, and, at this hour, her foggy brain’s only sound thought is: COFFEE. Lots of it, urgently. 

It’s in her rush to the coffee machine that she stumbles upon what can only be described as a mountain of packages and presents in every color of the rainbow. They’re arranged on the table, with a small pile of envelopes delicately placed at the front – each with Tobin’s name marked out in a different scrawl. As she takes it in, she begins to notice everything else around her. There are over-the-top foil balloons floating by the windows that spell out her name in metallic red and black, as well as a bunch of streamers strewn across the connecting rooms and dangling from the ceiling.

“Happy birthday, Tobes!” Tobin hears from behind her. When she turns at the sound, Christen’s got her curls twisted into a bun on top of her head and her favorite pajama shorts and cami combination on – with one crucial difference. “Oh, wait. The finishing touch!” Christen carefully positions a party hat that’s embellished with ridiculous pom-poms on the top of her head, the elastic snapping against her face a little, and smiles brighter, before saying, “Okay, now we’re good.” 

“Is it my Sweet 16th?” Tobin says with a laugh.

Christen shakes her head, smiling still. Smiling her Tobin smile. “Don’t give me any ideas!” 

Tobin finds herself twisting a finger around the ribbon dangling from one of her balloons – the ‘O’ – and looking around at it all, not wanting to miss a single detail. It’s only then that she notices that there’s a party hat balanced on the top of the TV, there’s a handmade garland hanging on the far wall, there’s an array of food prepped in the kitchen already. “Thank you. You know, you didn’t have to do all this.”

“I wanted to,” Christen replies with a shy shrug, her voice soft and, if Tobin’s not imagining it, a little breathless. “You’ve been… _so_ amazing to me, and I wanted to make your day as fun as possible.” 

Tobin knows she’s blushing. She can feel the prickling of her cheeks. 

“I mean, it’s no World Cup party but I’m doing my best out here.” Christen gestures to all of it, every thoughtful detail that surrounds them both. It’s the kind of fuss Tobin’s not experienced since she was a little kid and her mom would go to town with themed birthdays, every paper plate printed to look like a soccer ball and a giant cake to match. And normally it wouldn’t be quite her thing – she’d shrink herself small and hide away in a kitchen alcove with a beer in her hand if a party-load of people were there – but it’s all Christen’s efforts. It’s Christen herself. That’s what makes it mean so much. And just as Tobin’s thinking warmly, relief washing over her, that her roommate’s distance might have been more about the secrecy of all this than anything else, Christen says, “Oh, and I got you a button!”

“A–” Tobin can’t finish the thought before Christen’s right in front of her fixing a birthday button to the t-shirt she’d slept in. She stands so close, when Tobin glances down to follow the focus of Christen’s attention, she can feel Christen’s breath ghosting along her skin as she reads the button. On it, there’s a gigantic, red ‘2 TODAY’, with a Sharpied ‘3’ in front of it.

“Okay, you’re good now,” Christen announces, looking up at Tobin with a hand still resting on her arm, oblivious to the effect it’s having. 

Tobin forces herself to smile through it, even as Christen lingers a little too close. The flutter low in Tobin’s stomach seems to intensify with each passing second. “It’s incredible. I don’t–when did you–how did you do all this?” 

Christen shrugs it off at first, before explaining, “I’ve been hiding a bunch of stuff at my place and I put it all in my room while you were at training, then I, umm, got up super early this morning.” As if that’s all the explanation needed, she sets off toward the kitchen. “I thought we’d have pancakes for breakfast – if you like. Your wish is my command. But I did already cut the fruit, so–”

“Sounds perfect, Chris,” Tobin cuts her off, laughing through her nose as she does. When Christen nods in reply, Tobin finds it impossible to stop smiling. Her jaw seems to ache when she tries to fight it, because it does sound perfect, _it feels perfect._

Her voice soft and quiet, Christen asks, “How long before you gotta head off to training?”

“A few hours yet,” Tobin replies, grateful for every single minute in between now and then. Grateful for the time she can spend just enjoying _this_ , soaking up Christen’s efforts and forgetting all the niggling worries that have been keeping her company the past few days. 

“While I get all this ready, you should open your gifts, Tobes. There are a bunch of cards from, like, your parents and your family, I think. At the front,” Christen says, pointing vaguely from the other side of the room as she heads toward the coffee machine as if anticipating Tobin’s desperate need for coffee even before it comes back into her mind. 

“I gotta take a picture of all this first. It’s so sick. My mom’s gonna lose it,” Tobin replies, still distracted by all that’s around her: the decorations, the gifts, the cards and – she notices suddenly – one particularly large box at the bottom of the pile. It had been hidden beneath the countless other individually-wrapped gifts that had been distracting Tobin’s attention from the sheer scale of it, but now she sees it, a layer of blue and gold foil wrapping covering its expanse. It takes up the entire table lengthways, with everything piled over the top. “This one’s kinda big,” she comments, approaching the table to get a good look at it. 

“Don’t tell me you were that kid who always wanted to open the biggest things first,” Christen teases as she pours out two coffees. “I’ll let you off this time because that one just so happens to be from me.”

Tobin looks up, unable to hide her surprise. “From you?” 

“Even though the whole getting-back-to-training thing sorta blew the concept, I think you’ll still like it,” Christen continues, chewing on her lip as she wanders back over. Tobin only realizes she’s still brushing an absent hand over the smooth wrapping when Christen holds out a mug for her. “I thought you’d get to it last because it’s buried under everything else.”

Her voice coming out lower than she means, Tobin replies, “You underestimate me.”

Christen’s eyebrows shoot up, her mouth twisting to hide a smile. “Maybe so.”

“I’m opening it first,” Tobin decides, placing her barely-sipped coffee down on the seat of one of the chairs before reaching out to recklessly take the arrangement apart. She’s cut off by Christen’s hands pulling her back.

“Wait, wait, wait!” She sounds stern until she bursts out laughing. “You said you wanted to take a picture for your mom.”

Tobin groans childishly, but it’s purely for show. She jogs off to her bedroom to pick up her phone and, ignoring the flurry of texts that have already accumulated so far this morning, she comes back to indulge in a mini photoshoot. Now that she’s committed, she doesn’t hurry it either. Unsatisfied with the attempts on her phone, she swiftly swaps it for her DSLR. 

She’s careful to capture every detail for posterity. 

She makes sure the balloons are perfectly lined up with her name. She takes a few different angles of the gift pile. She opens the curtains to give the room the perfect lighting.

If she happens to capture Christen in a few of the shots, well, so be it. It adds a little depth to the composition to include Christen in the frame, gazing at her own handiwork proudly. At first, Tobin plays with aperture so that her friend’s presence is seen but out of focus. But then she twists the lens, switching focus, preserving Christen in sharp detail. It’s the small matter of how well the camera flatters her, even in the early morning when she’s got sleep dust in her eyes and she’s not even showered yet. The way that she’s smiling, the way she looks so pleased with herself, so relaxed, radiates in every shot. The line of her gaze creates the perfect focal point, and her hand lingers over the curling ribbon from one of the balloons, toying with the end of it until it springs away.

At that moment, Christen’s attention turns back to Tobin. She doesn’t have time to shift her focus back, so it catches her out. 

“Am I in that one?” Christen asks, a hand on her hip like Tobin’s in trouble.

“No,” Tobin lies, but she grins in full, proud admission.

Christen shakes her head. But she smiles brightly, and there’s an easy familiarity to the way she says, “Okay.”

“Am I allowed to open your gift now, boss?”

“As you wish.” Christen rolls her eyes without even a hint of irritation. She’s beaming, and Tobin can’t help but take one last picture. For posterity, of course. 

With her camera put away, Tobin is reckless as she takes the pile apart to dig Christen’s gift out from under it all. When she gets to it and moves to lift it off the table, she realizes it’s not just big – it’s surprisingly heavy too, the weight of it catching her out a little. Still, she can’t figure it out. She can’t think of a single thing it could be, still mulling over Christen’s comment about how her return to training might have ruined the idea. 

It only makes sense when she opens the box. 

Inside, there’s a mini foosball table – though the ‘mini’ is relative. 

With a sturdy, old-fashioned wooden frame, it’s built much the same as a full-scale table football set but without the legs and half the size. The bars and pieces lie swaddled in bubble wrap, waiting to be assembled, with a collection of players in red shirts and blue shirts – all with the same black Lego-style haircut. 

When Tobin realizes what it is, she can’t help but run a hand along the smooth wood. She moves the pad of her finger over the goal counter – 1, 2, 3, then back to nil. Then she looks up at Christen, speechless.

“Listen, I tried to find a women’s one, believe me,” Christen begins to explain, talking far too fast for Tobin to keep up, tucking her hair behind her ear, “and, seriously, I think I got myself as worked up about the unjust gender discrepancies within the foosball table world as I did over the equal pay thing, but I thought we could do some crafting, you know?” Tobin only nods along, trying to keep her face as neutral as she can, not wanting Christen to break her rhythm. “Add some ponytails? Maybe get a pink paint marker to make a Megan? She suggested we get some pre-wrap for them actually, when I told her. And I don’t know, but I, uh… I thought it would be a fun way to… get you playing soccer again someway.” 

“Chris.”

“Yeah?”

“Shut up for a sec.” Tobin smiles, then wraps her arms around Christen and just holds her. 

They hug for a while and Tobin enjoys it more than any of the balloons, the streamers, the gifts. It’s as if they anchor themselves there, against each other, with nowhere else to be. The faint touch that had been so electric when Christen passed her in the kitchen pales in comparison to this warm, tight embrace. 

As Christen strokes her hand evenly across Tobin’s back, Tobin can’t help but tuck her face into Christen’s neck, letting herself get lost in the faint floral scent of a perfume or body wash she’s grown familiar with. She sinks into the intimacy of it as Christen says, her voice a sweet melody, “Happy birthday, Tobin.”

“Thank you,” she whispers, the words muffled against Christen’s skin.

It’s only when Christen’s arms drop from the hug that they slowly draw themselves apart. Still beaming at the thoughtfulness of the gift, Tobin’s quick to propose a game – one that quickly becomes best of three, best of five, best of seven. 

Before long, it’s time for training and Tobin doesn’t want to leave.

The relief she’d felt at Providence Park knowing it was once again part of her routine, knowing she’d be back, is swallowed by the more immediate desire never to leave this bubble. It’s almost dizzying, the way she longs for both worlds at once. And this one, the one where things are so gloriously easy with Christen, feels fragile and precious, like if she lets it out of her grasp for a moment, it might just shatter.

As if reading her mind, Christen reminds her, gesturing to the mini foosball table, “It’ll be here when you get back,” and Tobin wants to ask, _And so will you?_ But she doesn’t.

At least the pain of going is rather softened by the warm reception when she arrives at Providence Park. 

When she gets to training, her teammates are quick to wish her a happy birthday before the group assembles to perform a merry chorus of ‘Happy Birthday’. Led by Mark, they sing it all in English first and then, with Rocky’s leadership, in Spanish far less confidently, before Nadine is persuaded into a German rendition. Just when Tobin thinks it’s over, Lindsey pretends to launch into French. She gets out a single, uncertain line of ‘Joyeux Anniversaire’ before erupting with laughter and falling into Sophia’s side as Tobin shakes her head, chuckling at the mere idea of Lindsey having retained any French from their time at PSG. 

Over the eruption of giggles, Mark announces, “In honor of Tobin’s birthday, I thought we’d spend some real time on 1-v-1s. See how many of you can leave today without getting megged.”

Tobin hears a collective groan, but their faces say it’s all for show. As the group breaks apart to start in on warm-up drills, she feels Becky’s arm linger around her shoulders and Sinc pat her on the back, then Kling gestures for a high five.

It’s as they settle into the session, smiles on their faces because the gratitude is so close to the surface and the novelty of their reunion feels fresh, that Tobin realizes it might be the best birthday of all. Not everyone gets to be with their people right now, and Tobin doesn’t completely, of course, but if she gets to enjoy the company of her teammates, that’s good enough. 

And when she gets back to her phone after it’s over, she doesn’t find a message from Christen to say she’s eating alone later. She finds an inbox full of birthday texts, and one from Christen that asks, _What time do you get home later?_ The emoji she’s chosen this time is the one with the blue party hat, reminding Tobin of the one Christen had proudly donned earlier, the elastic digging into her skin as she’d beamed at Tobin, beautiful and dorky in equal measure. 

For all that she’d anticipated the loneliest birthday yet, it feels like a good day. 

*

As soon as Tobin comes through the door of the apartment after another happy afternoon spent at Providence Park, she’s greeted with the sight of Christen practically skidding toward her. She’s made herself over since the morning’s surprise celebrations. In fact, she’s more dressed up now than Tobin’s ever seen her: mascara lengthening her lashes, a sheen of highlighter glittering her cheeks, her hair straightened into sleek waves rather than natural curls. 

She’s wearing _that_ dress, too. The one she’d modeled in the kitchen only a few weeks before, the one that had given away her investment in Tobin’s birthday long before Tobin herself had given it any thought: the bold pattern fits perfectly around her upper half, a square neckline allowing for the tease of decolletage, before it flows into a pleated, flowing maxi skirt from the waist. It’s anything but subtle. The print is red, blush, navy, forest green, pale mint, bright pink and more. It’s so many colors Tobin can’t take them all in. It’s a clash of patterns, too – paisley, floral, mandalas – all dancing around Christen, the billowing skirt creating a movement about the dress that’s heightened by the way she pounces on Tobin in the doorway. 

But it’s still not enough to distract from Christen’s beauty, the shine of her complexion and the breathtaking green of her eyes. 

“I– _fuck_ ,” Tobin really does say aloud while staring gormlessly at her friend. 

Christen only laughs, as if she can’t intuit why she’s having quite this effect on Tobin.

“Chris?” Tobin manages on the second attempt.

“Do you trust me?” Christen asks, a little too casual to account for the weight of the question and the way Tobin can hear her heartbeat loud in her ears. She only nods a reply, before Christen cheerfully continues: “Okay, I need you to, umm, just… freshen up, wear whatever combination of t-shirt and sweatpants your heart desires, then just… umm, call my name, okay?”

“Call your name?” Tobin repeats, arching her eyebrows as she tries to peer over Christen’s shoulder and figure out what’s going on. She can smell something – garlic perhaps, a hint of cheese – coming from the kitchen and she tries to get a look, with Christen immediately pushing her back. “What is going on?”

It’s as Tobin uses her natural agility to slide her way past Christen that she feels arms tighten around her waist from behind. Christen’s squeezing tight, trying to pull her back – and Tobin’s too surprised to put up much of a fight as she gets dragged toward her own bedroom. 

When Christen eventually lets go, she carefully instructs, “Until I say, you’re only allowed in here and in there,” gesturing like an air hostess to Tobin’s bedroom and the bathroom next door. 

“I don’t remember agreeing to this.” Tobin’s unable to hold back chuckles of laughter now at the way Christen’s pretending to be serious and stern with her. 

“What’s that saying? Umm... ‘Don’t ask for permission, beg for forgiveness.’”

“Should I be worried?”

“No! I’m trying to do a nice thing. Won’t you just… let me?” Christen’s eyes go wide and pleading, and there’s no way she doesn’t know what she’s doing. She seems to soften a little as she adds, “Tobin, this dress is way too nice for me to fight you again.”

Tobin can’t help but agree. “Okay, okay. My bad, Chris. I’ll, umm… I’ll play along.” She puts her hands up in surrender, then backs into her bedroom as Christen pointedly raises her eyebrows. 

Once the door closes, she can’t help but smile to herself, giddy at the flurry of possibilities the evening suddenly holds. She gets ready in record time, knowing better than to let herself start to think hard on it. She could spend hours thinking about which outfit choice is best going to match Christen’s while not appearing too uncharacteristically fancy. She could sit on the end of her bed telling herself to get her goddamn breathing under control. She could let herself feel the generosity of Christen’s efforts. But she doesn’t. She can’t. She showers quickly, then chooses a simple fitted tee, a pair of black slacks and lets her hair air-dry like always. 

The time it takes is still too long. It’s still too long spent away from Christen. This version of Christen, so willing to give her every attention. And, fuck, if that isn’t all Tobin wants for her birthday. When it comes down to it. 

It feels the way it had before, when she’d rushed back any time she left the apartment. When she’d forgotten about the art studio entirely for a few weeks. When solo training seemed an obstacle, getting in the way of her time with Christen. It’s a giddy, impatient feeling that she’d once not been able to pinpoint. But Pinoe had. Pinoe had been able to recognize what it was from the first moment she’d seen it for herself.

“Chris?” she calls out of her doorway, attempting obedience for the sake of, well, appealing to Christen’s heart by any means necessary. 

She seems to appear instantly, smiley and bright now as her hands quickly come up to cover Tobin’s eyes. “Come with me,” she mutters, almost to herself, as Tobin tries to avoid blindly stumbling into anything. She can feel, almost burning with the proximity, that Christen’s pressed up against her, arms bracketing Tobin’s shoulders as she walks her down the hall, the two of them moving in step as Tobin consciously forces herself to steady her breath.

As they make their way through the apartment, she begins to hear the low bassline of a Childish Gambino song Christen’s listened to a hundred times playing from another room. It grows clearer and clearer, the lyrics coming into focus, but it’s only when cool air hits her that she realizes the sound is coming from outside, on the balcony, amid the plants. 

Once they’re out there, the breeze taking wisps of Tobin’s hair with it, Christen lets her hands fall away to reveal Tobin’s little metal table covered in a fancy white tablecloth with drinks and cutlery all laid out. There are twinkly lights wrapped around the rail of the balcony, glimmering in the half-light as the pink-orange sky begins to fade into darkness. There’s even a tea light at the center of the table too. It’s nice. It’s fancy. “It’s the closest thing I could get to a restaurant,” Christen explains, a modest shrug delivered with it as if she doesn’t have a clue how much better this is. It might be the most romantic thing anyone’s ever done for Tobin, however she means it. “For tonight, I am your maitre d’, your waiter and, well, your company. Best I could do.”

 _Best there is_. “Chris,” Tobin says, like it’s the beginning, middle and end. 

Christen shakes her head as she pulls out the chair, its metal feet dragging along the ground harshly to interrupt the lazy melody of the song in the background. “Take a seat, mon amie,” she says, laughing at herself shyly, and Tobin’s too dumbstruck to argue. She goes along with it, craning her neck to watch Christen disappear back inside once again. 

“Chris?” she calls in.

“Stay there one second! I’m coming back!” 

Tobin laughs as she watches the trailing skirt of Christen’s dress slowly fade from view. 

She takes the moment alone to take in all that’s around her, without having to hide her smile from scrutiny. The lights look magical, laced all around them like it’s Christmas, with their succulents and botanicals adding to the ambience of the scene. When she looks back at the table, she notices the craft beer Christen’s put out for her, right across from the glass of red she knows is Christen’s. She takes a sip as she soaks it up: the soothing, gentle playlist balanced by the hum of the city, the promising aroma coming from the kitchen, the sight of the lights sparkling, the chill of the early evening air. 

When Christen eventually returns, in a matter of minutes that feel like hours, she comes carrying a plate in each hand, filled with their beloved mac and cheese recipe – finely honed after a few months of expert amendments. Tobin recognizes it from the smell alone once it’s wafting in her direction, and the crispy layer of browned cheese and panko on the top confirms her suspicions. As soon as she’s allowed to take a bite, it tastes just as good as she remembers, the sentimental part of her grateful for the thought behind it. 

The whole meal seems to disappear in seconds, the speed at which she’s eating it perhaps bordering on impolite – though Christen doesn’t bat an eyelid. She clears their plates with the promise of more, shyly saying, “So, as a little throwback to the first time we met, I decided I’d make a batch of those, umm, salted caramel chocolate brownies for dessert.”

The broad, unabashed grin that breaks out across Tobin’s face comes too quick for her to hold back even a little. Images of the two of them sat across the hallway outside Christen’s apartment flash in her mind – the two of them sharing their first ‘meal’ of sorts, learning about Elena and her neighbors, how effortless their conversation had felt straight away. She thinks now that the all-consuming crush that keeps her company these days is perhaps not such a wild leap from sprinting up the stairs just to bring her beautiful neighbor ice cream and sitting on the hallway floor just to talk to her. The writing was on the wall from the beginning, and Tobin’s reminded of it with each delicious bite. 

Though the homemade brownies, served with a single scoop of chocolate ice cream, are just as good as Tobin remembers, they don’t manage too much. With a full heart and a full stomach, Tobin bows out early – a melted puddle of ice cream still in her bowl as she surrenders. It’s not that she’s achingly full, but she knows that something about tonight makes her want to stop short of it. 

Christen barely touches hers, even slower about it than Tobin. When she notices Tobin lean back, done, she seems to follow suit, using the dirty bowls as an opportunity to grab a warm layer from inside the apartment. She chooses Tobin’s cozy, monochrome ‘Let Your Soul Guide Your Way’ sweatshirt, walking back out as she pulls it over her head, covering up the top half of her beautiful dress, leaving her hair tucked beneath the neckline. Tobin watches from across the table as Christen wraps her arms around herself, shivering a little even with the extra layer on, but trying to hide it behind a warm smile.

Tobin can’t resist teasing, “You dressed for summer.” 

“I dressed for you, for your birthday,” Christen corrects her, like it’s a watertight argument and she’s feeling smug about it. “You cold? I can grab you–”

“I’m good, Chris,” Tobin insists, the words coming out easy and lazy as she leans forward to take a sip of the beer she’s been steadily working her way through. “I think I’m, like, warm-blooded or something.” 

“Warm-blooded?” Christen laughs at the notion. 

“Yeah, I might, like, overheat.”

“Tobin, it’s nearly nine. You’re gonna overheat?”

“Maybe,” she mumbles with a smile and a shrug. Christen just rolls her eyes and lets a sweet silence wash over the moment. Silent but for the music.

Tobin can’t help but clear her throat, her fingers tightening around the neck of the beer bottle. The song in the background plays her heartstrings to its melody: ‘I Want You Around _’_ , Snoh Aalegra. The titular refrain repeats over and over, the twinkle of keys beneath it, echoing her truth while Christen sits in front of her, smiling, glowing, shining. She looks relaxed like this, at ease for the first time in days because her master plan finally paid off. If the past few days were all about this moment, getting here, sitting beneath the moonlight with a candle lit between them and a perfect day behind them, then maybe it’s time to let the doubts ebb away. Maybe it’s time to allow the message through the speaker. It’s Christen’s playlist, after all. 

As the music changes, Tobin looks down to scratch away the wet paper label of the bottle and clears her throat again. “One day, we’re gonna be… out of here, living our normal lives again, and things are gonna be different,” she considers, slow and careful over each word. “We’re gonna go back to our lives, I guess, but the thing is…” Tobin looks up to meet Christen’s waiting gaze, pressing her teeth sharply into her bottom lip as she takes in the sight of her again, digging in then letting it go. “I don’t want the same old life. I’d miss you.” 

Christen smiles, but keeps it to herself. She glances down, shy in the way Tobin had been. “Do you think about it much? When this is over?”

“More often lately.”

“What’s the first thing you’ll do?”

Tobin looks out over the balcony, taking in the expanse of the cityscape before she answers. “I just want to play so bad,” she admits, meeting Christen’s eyes as she speaks.

Christen nods as if she knew as much. “I want to see you play.”

“Yeah,” Tobin thinks aloud, that’s the first thing she wants: to share this thing she loves with this person she loves, to invite Christen into the rest of her world. “And I want to see my sisters’ kids. Those beautiful, crazy kids that I miss.” She doesn’t add that she wants to share them with Christen, too. “And, like, my siblings, and my mom and dad. It’s the people, right?” 

Christen seems almost in a daze as she says, “When you really get into it, it all just tumbles out. Life.”

“Yeah.” Tobin’s voice cracks over the word. As it all tumbles out. The emotion that’s thick in the air. She closes her eyes to resist it, to prevent tears. 

She feels Christen’s hand cover her own where it lies flat on the table. The touch – light at first, but jolting because of how much cooler Christen’s hand is than her own – prompts Tobin to automatically turn her own hand up to meet it, to _hold_ it. The moment she realizes what she’s doing, the reflex coming too quick to stop herself, it feels like too much. It feels like all her vulnerability is exposed. It feels–

 _Okay_ , she realizes suddenly. A wave of relief washes over her as she feels the brush of Christen’s hand slipping into hers, and then a stillness, a warmth between their palms, as Christen simply holds on.

When Tobin opens her eyes, she can feel the wetness weighing down her eyelashes. But, despite the way she remains teetering on the edge of tears, she wants to look. She can’t help but look. She wants to allow herself the comfort of Christen being there with her. 

Her voice unsteady over the words, she admits, “I don’t know how I’d have done this without you, Chris.” 

“Well,” Christen starts, a slanted, consoling smile at her lips as she squeezes Tobin’s hand, “you’ll never have to find out.”

Tobin nods, ever so slightly. She knows Christen sees it by the way her eyes soften. Her hand draws away, allowing Tobin to reach for another sip of beer. Some excuse to swallow the lump in her throat. 

Solange’s ‘Cranes in the Sky _’_ transitions seamlessly into ‘Pink + White _’_ by Frank Ocean, and Christen’s eyes close as though she’s soaking up the music like sun. Tobin just watches, letting the evening go to her head. It’s that dizzy feeling usually brought on by the second or third drink. Now it feels like floating – completely untethered, with no idea where she’ll land when it’s over. 

“Thank you for tonight,” Tobin says, prompting Christen’s eyes to open, finding hers instantly. 

“Of course.” Christen stops short of a smile, the intensity in her eyes taking over her expression. Tobin swallows at the sight of her. _Beautiful_. Dangerous as it may be, she can’t deny it anymore. It’s intoxicating, the way she glows under the moonlight, the gleam of her cheekbones and the sparkle of her eyes. The dimpled brackets that form every time Tobin earns a smile poke at her heart, forming lines across it like a map she’s not ready to follow. Christen smiles now like she’s got something to hide and yet Tobin feels like the guilty one. 

“What?” Tobin prods, nervous for the answer, waiting for the other shoe to drop. 

“I have one more little surprise,” she confesses. 

“Chris–” _It’s too much_ , she can’t quite say. 

Christen picks up her phone, fingers guiding over the glass screen before the music stops. Curious, Tobin waits out the pregnant silence, and then Christen gets up from her seat, coming over to the other side of the table. She hovers beside Tobin’s chair, leaning across her to prop up the phone as she explains, “So, it wasn’t just me who wanted you to have a special birthday. And I know you wish you were with more of your friends and family, so I tried to make them a part of today as much as possible.” 

“Chris?” 

Tobin’s looking up at her, confused by the way she’s lingering there awkwardly, and it’s without a thought that she puts her arm out and guides Christen closer. Closer and closer, until she’s about to crouch right by the chair leg, but Tobin curls an arm around her waist and pulls Christen into her lap. Doubt slips in as soon as it’s done, but then she feels the way Christen relaxes against her, leaning back as soon as she taps to play the video on her phone. 

Tobin lets her chin rest on Christen’s shoulder as the screen lights up. 

Tobin’s instantly greeted with the broad smile of her mother saying, “Happy birthday, sweetie!” before she launches into a sentimental speech about how much she loves and misses her youngest daughter. 

The video is a blur to Tobin, who’s quickly buried under the avalanche of emotion that’s just knocked her out. And then she sees her sisters, her nephews and her niece, her brother, the Thorns, the national team girls, old teammates, surfing friends she hasn’t seen in months, college pals she hasn’t spoken to in years. It’s everyone. Years of friendly faces, all smiling at her from their homes all over the world — on their own, with their little kids to add entertainment, with dogs barking around them, with family members Tobin’s never met; they’re all caught up in their own little bubble of life, pausing to speak to her. Each individual clip transports her to a different part of her life, across state lines and countries and continents.

When it fades to black on the last video message – Cheney, her sweet, wonderful Cheney (now Holiday, technically, but always, fondly, Cheney to Tobin), with J.T. beaming in her lap – Tobin expects it to end. She’s almost relieved for it, the tightness of her throat painful and tears sinking into her cheeks.

But it’s not over.

A message comes up, with a name she’s never heard before. Then another, and another, and another. 

Some of them are young kids, a photo of a small body in an oversized jersey next to a handwritten letter. Some of them are teenagers, their adoration typed into emphatic tweets she only half-understands. Some of them are adults, writing long-winded Instagram captions that detail the difference one person can make. The sentiment is the same. It’s a montage of fan messages about her. Ones about how inspired they are, how she’s made them feel more themselves, how old clips of her have kept them entertained during quarantine, how much they’re looking forward to seeing her play again.

The words of the final message sink into her consciousness, embedding there forever: _“You helped me accept myself and inspired me to chase my dreams."_

Tobin’s face glistens with emotion as she looks up at Christen, a shy smile waiting there. She looks nervous, even as she thumbs away some of Tobin’s tears. 

Tobin has to draw herself back just to find room to breathe. 

“How? How did you do this?”

Christen’s eyes are glittering with tears, as if a perfect reflection of Tobin’s own. “I… I kinda maybe stole your phone, and then texted Pinoe my number to get her to help me. I’ve really got to know some of your friends,” she confesses, laughing nervously. 

Digging deep to cling to whatever cool is still left to muster, Tobin teases, “Hang on, you hacked my phone to get P’s number? Wow. I knew you were a fan, Chris, but that’s, like, kinda stalker-y behavior, don’t you think?”

Christen lightly whacks her on the arm. “Shut up. No!” Tobin smirks at Christen’s frustration, at the frantic way she tries to explain. “I couldn’t figure out how else to do it and I wanted to do something for you. My crime was for a good cause, I promise.”

Tobin hugs her — because she has to, can’t not. Her arms wrap around Christen’s body loosely, not quite squeezing but encircling her. “You’re the fucking best, Chris. This is the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me.”

The last thing she could ever feel now is lonely. 

“I kinda thought–”

“What?” Christen twists around to get a good look at her, smiling unabashedly in a way that near stops Tobin’s heart completely. Tobin even winces a little, like someone’s shining a spotlight in her eyes.

“I thought something was up,” Tobin confesses. It’s a relief to get it out, to talk about this shitty feeling she’s been dragging around with her, though she’s careful not to make it seem pointed or accusatory. The words are gently spoken, barely louder than the white noise of the city. “You’ve been kinda, like… I don’t know… distant, or whatever. Just the past few nights.”

“No! I wasn’t–I didn’t mean to…” Christen laughs at herself, covering her face a little before her hand comes away and she looks at Tobin properly, an intense directness about her gaze suddenly. She scrunches her nose. “I wasn’t at all. I just really wanted everything to be perfect, and I kept having to email people and edit clips together in this movie-editing program I don’t even know how to use. And the other night, I got so sucked into watching the, umm… the Jordan documentary with you that I totally forgot I promised your friend Allie I would email her back. And Alex had some questions, and then I just–”

“Wait, was it you who talked to Lindsey?”

“Yeah.” Christen grits her teeth.

Tobin bites her lip, a wave of amusement hitting her with the realization. “I was so ready to give Harry shit for gossiping about that, umm… like, that call we had, you know? But it wasn’t her.” On second thought, she adds: “Although, she probably did still do that, to be fair.”

“Oh yeah, Lindsey did not seem surprised when I explained who I was,” Christen says, chuckling along every word as Tobin joins in. 

Reclining against the back of the chair to get a good look at Christen, Tobin marvels at her. “You’ve done so much. What the fuck am I gonna do when it’s your birthday?” 

“Well, mine’s in December so you probably don’t have to worry about it,” Christen replies, with a lazy, comical shrug. She closes her eyes through it and there’s a bolt of electricity between them when she opens them again. 

Tobin hadn’t been thinking about the half-joking question in terms of quarantine, but now she wonders if perhaps that’ll be it. This quasi-relationship built to last until normality is restored. The problem is that, for Tobin, it’s stopped being just a tonic for the times. She can’t stop thinking of all the things she wants to do when they can go out, every picture in her mind one that includes Christen at her side. It’s a fantasy that’s becoming increasingly hard to ignore and suppress.

“You goin’ somewhere then?” Tobin asks, feeling bold enough to smooth her hand along Christen’s hip.

Christen swallows. Tobin notices it. The gulp in her throat. Every sound is amplified by the stillness between them, the music silenced by the video interlude. 

“Not if I can help it,” she replies, so quietly there seems barely enough sound for the faint wind to carry it. “Me and you against the world now, hotshot.”

Christen curls herself around Tobin a little more, her weight shifting in Tobin’s lap until she’s pressed closer. Tobin turns her head just enough that their faces brush, foreheads finding each other like magnets. It’s a brief moment of near invisible movement, and then they settle against the solid form of one another. Their faces are so close, closer than close, one small move and it’s a line crossed. Not crossed – hurdled, leapt, vaulted. 

Christen is sinking hard into the meat of Tobin’s thighs, her skinny legs dangling over the side of them and all her weight levelled on Tobin. All she can think is how solid Christen feels against her, how firmly rooted she feels like this, arms encircling Christen like it’s where she belongs; _it is, it must be_. 

Christen doesn’t move away or resist, keeping one arm rested along the line of Tobin’s shoulders with her fingertips teasing over the hem of Tobin’s t-shirt sleeve, the other hand fixed to the bare skin of her forearm. Tobin aches for her to slide her touch lower, to hold her hand and squeeze it or tease it _or_ _something_. She’s utterly still. Then, as Tobin watches her intently, without much inhibition left, Christen shuts her eyes, eyelashes fluttering until they still, too, completely closed. 

_I have to kiss you_ , Tobin thinks so intensely it feels as though it must be audible to Christen. It feels impossible that she can’t hear the megaphone-loud thoughts rushing through Tobin’s mind. Even if she can’t hear a thing, she must feel. She must feel the almost-brush of Tobin’s lips against the side of her own: not quite her cheek, not quite her mouth. She must feel the question it asks: _is this okay?_ She must feel Tobin’s nervous, catching breaths as she waits. 

There’s a pause, Tobin’s lips hanging, frozen. 

And then Christen’s eyes flash open. 

Permission.

Christen’s hand sliding under Tobin’s jaw, the cool gold of her rings tingling against the skin there, she lifts Tobin’s head so that she’s looking straight at her, unable to look away – even just to take a breath. Because she can’t. She can’t breathe with Christen looking at her like this, her sweetness giving way to something darker, her eyes full of passionate want where they are usually so soft and warm. Her gaze drops for a flash to Tobin’s lips as if formulating a plan. 

It’s painful, how long it drags on. It drags on like a moment capturing their whole relationship. It’s slow and painful and beautiful. She wants it to end as much as she wants it never to end. 

Christen looks for a long time, not moving. It’s torment. 

She looks and looks and looks, first into Tobin’s eyes and then, again, at her lips, and it’s not like Tobin even thinks about it before she snaps. It’s just instinct. It’s just desperate, aching need that has a hand gripping tightly at Christen’s side, bunching the fabric of her sweatshirt, while the other slides through the hair at the nape of her neck, that has her mouth urgently pressing against Christen’s, that has her body twisting to be as close as possible.

It tastes like chocolate ice cream. That’s the first thing Tobin notices. Sweet and rich and cool.

The second thing she notices is Christen’s fingertips tenderly skating through the hair just below her ear, ever so delicate, as if cautiously feeling the texture of a fabric. Though it’s light, the soothing touch holds Tobin against Christen’s lips, drawing her closer as their kiss deepens, prompting Tobin’s hand – without a thought – to comb gently through the soft, smooth waves of Christen’s hair in response.

The kiss develops slowly, a hard, eager press of their lips evolving into more at an aching pace. It’s conservative at first. There’s too much feeling buried in it to hurry it along too fast, and the pleasure of their upper bodies pressed together, chest to chest, Christen positioned awkwardly to make it so, has Tobin desperate to make no wrong move. The feeling of that alone is enough to savor, the close, tight embrace stirring that liquid feeling deep and low. 

It’s once they’ve taken a breath that Tobin dares to gently kiss only Christen’s top lip, then she brushes over the lower one, tender with each, as if reverently asking them to part for her. When, keenly responsive, they do, Christen breathes a soft, low moan against Tobin’s mouth, preempting the hot, slick meeting of tongues that has once-tender hands pulling at clothes: Tobin’s and Christen’s and Tobin’s that Christen’s borrowed, or perhaps permanently claimed. Over the soft pleats of Christen’s dress, Tobin guides up her thigh to sweep a hand beneath the hem of her own sweater to squeeze Christen’s ass, feeling Christen pulling on her shirt in response, as if bursting with the same pent-up sexual frustration she’s felt for weeks.

When they come up for air, as heady and breathless as Tobin’s ever felt, the sounds of the city come back into focus. There’s a siren, no–an alarm, but it’s… ringing, and ringing, and ringing. 

No. 

No, it’s closer. 

Tobin pulls herself clear, sobering to realize it’s the sharp, persistent marimba ring of a cell phone. Hers, she notices suddenly. The glass screen is lit up brightly amid the dim lighting of their dinner, the word ‘Mom’ appearing across it like a cold bucket of water being thrown over Tobin’s head. 

“Fuck,” Tobin utters, running a hand roughly through her hair. 

There’s a look of anticipation on Christen’s face when she dares to turn back, eyes darting down to the smudged lips she’s just kissed. 

“ _Tobin_ ,” Christen says, barely, barely a sound at all, pleading on a breath. It’s enough to bring her out of her daze, but it feels fragile. It all feels too fragile.

Tobin can’t take it. There’s too much between them and not enough air. She wants to lean in again. She wants too much. She swallows, trying to steady herself. Her heartbeat trying to find an even rhythm. 

“I–I… should get it,” she says, but it’s like someone else is saying the words. She doesn’t mean them. Not really. Only it’s her mom – who always calls on her birthday, who hasn’t all day – and there’s a faint, nagging worry that she really _should_ answer. And before she can really decide, she feels Christen shift away, she feels cool air hitting where Christen had been in her lap, she feels an aching sense of loss. When she looks from the phone to Christen, who’s now standing beside her, there’s reluctant, resigned acceptance etched in her expression, a sad nod before she swallows and looks away.

All Tobin wants is to reach out to her and pull her back in. It’s really the only thing Tobin wants to do.

But the ringing renews, starting afresh as if demanding to be answered. So, despite every instinct in her body willing her not to, she stands up, grabs the phone and heads inside to take it, her mother’s voice so warm and loud and full of energy as she wishes her a happy birthday that it’s like walking into a different world, a different time, a different universe. 

With every inch of her body tensing and her lips still tingling from the kiss, Tobin’s voice strains for a normal, level tone as she musters a cheery, “Hey Mom!” on her way to the kitchen. When she gets there, she’s quick to lean all her weight on a countertop while her body, still feeling molten and liquid, doesn’t feel quite able to hold itself up. 

“Thank goodness I caught you,” Cindy continues, though Tobin can’t share her relief, her mind still stuck out on the balcony, watching back the memory like a VAR replay, wondering how the fuck it wasn’t _the moment_ , the game-changer, the winner. As unwanted calls go, this one’s making a few of her yellow cards and a single red pale in comparison. “I just woke up and I realized that I hadn’t called you and wished you a happy birthday and, well, I just had to do it! I’m sorry it’s so late. Well, not so late for you; late for me! We had the kids over all day, and you know how time just disappears, and I know your sisters texted you, but I thought, oh, well, I’ll call Toby after dinner, and I just must’ve forgotten and–” 

Tobin rubs her hand over her face, trying to find a pause long enough to cut in. “Mom, I–”

“–I know you got my card. That sweet Christen told me she’d received it.” At the mention of her name, Tobin has to stop herself from glancing in Christen’s direction. If she looks, if she sees her waiting through the glass balcony window, she won’t be able to pay attention to another word her mom’s saying. “But I couldn’t get back to sleep till I spoke to you because,” her mom’s voice cracks a little, “we never miss your birthday. Even if it’s just a call.” 

And just like that, Tobin feels bad. Terrible, in fact. She feels terrible that this late-night gesture by her kind, loving mother feels like a nuisance obstacle. She feels terrible that she’s been distracted through almost every quick word of her mom’s speech. She feels terrible that even now she feels terrible, she still longs to be back in Christen’s arms and surrounded by twinkly lights with no one saying a single word. 

“You’re right, Mom. I’m glad we didn’t miss this one,” she replies, and maybe it’s a distortion of the truth, but it’s not quite a lie. “I, uh, don’t want you to stay up too late for me, though.” 

“Oh, honey, that’s sweet of you to say. You know how groggy I get in the morning if I don’t get my REM sleep. But you’ll call tomorrow?” Her voice lifts at the end of the question, soaring with hope. “It’s been too long and I miss you.” 

“Yeah, Mom, I’ll call tomorrow,” Tobin promises, clearing her throat as she feels it begin to tighten. The guilt at the way she’d wished her mother away prompts her to ask, “Things are good, though? The kids are good?” 

“Yeah, besides missing their favorite aunt, they’re wonderful.”

“I miss them. And I miss you, Mom.”

“I love you, Tobes.”

“I love you. Now, go back to bed!”

She hears her mother laugh, a full, true laugh, the kind she misses most. 

They hang up the call in that labored way Tobin hates but her mother can’t help, goodbyes and goodnights going back and forth a few too many times. For Cindy, it’s well-past midnight in Florida, while Tobin’s three hours behind and suspended in time, standing in her kitchen, a strange no man’s land feel to it now. 

It’s too late to turn back. She wouldn’t if she could, and yet the unknown ahead is vast and daunting. She feels alone at a crossroads, wandering the intersection with no clear path, attempting to figure out which way is forward. Without the interruption, she could’ve played off the kiss and whatever it had led to as a momentary lapse in judgment, if necessary; now, it hangs in the air, incomplete. To try and pick up where she left off would be, unequivocally, a choice. There would be no room to obfuscate later, no room to play down the truth of her feelings.

She clicks the switch at the side of her phone to silent mode.

Her hands pressed to the countertop as she musters up her courage, the cool of it almost stings against her palms. She can hear the uneven tempo of her breathing, loud in the silence and stillness of the room. As she glances down, she notices the wrinkles of her plain white tee, pulled loose from where it had been tucked into her pants and rumpled by Christen’s eager hands.

 _Fuck_.

She could just go right back outside. 

Before she can move, before she can figure out the right thing to say when she gets out there, she hears Christen’s voice say, “Tobin?” _Turn around_ , she hears in the sound of her name. _Turn the fuck around._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading all five million words of this chapter. 
> 
> If you’d like to indulge in a chilled, romantic/lonely (delete as appropriate) evening yourself, I thought I’d share fic!Christen’s playlist in full. It’s been keeping me company as I write this. **[23 songs for a night on the balcony](https://i.ibb.co/kxcm0vg/playlist.png)**. 
> 
> And, if anyone was wondering, Christen was wearing this Alice + Olivia dress: **[view](https://i.ibb.co/9HrNXjJ/CC003-P98530-W314-08.jpg)** / **[shop](https://www.aliceandolivia.com/deonna-pleated-maxi-dress/CC003P98530W314.html)**.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading along with this one. If you're enjoying it, I’d love to hear from you in the comments!
> 
> I’m wishing you all a wonderful day and hoping you're safe and well.


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